


Dirk and Jane: Wherever We Are

by Quilly



Series: Life with Dirk and Jane [3]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Caliginous Romance | Kismesis, Callie is a cherub on a mission, Dirk is her Watson, F/M, Flushed Romance | Matesprits, Jane is Sherlock, M/M, PART TWO IS HERE, Pale Romance | Moirallegiance, Post-Sburb/Sgrub, Quadrant Vacillation, TINY WETWARE TENTACLES, TW: Suicide, Warning: Reichenbach, because the space players being able to scramble molecules totally makes sense, but she's still condescending, craptastic action sequences are my life, cronus has had it with your bullcrap, detective vantas has decided to self-flagellate for a while, dumb humans, gamzee and dirk making out would be totally hot, human pale is not like troll pale, i anticipate your pitchforks and relish your tears, in which Dirk isn't handling it very well, in which everyone is reborn into the new planet, just a lot of presumption and grey areas, just let gamzee hate you janie, let's play spot the character in disguise, meenah no that's not how you react to losing, murder murder everywhere, no craptastic action sequences this time!, part one of a two-part special, she might not be )(IC in this world, stop spamming your tags now quilly, there are not nearly enough fish puns here, watch him go into Watson Vigilante Mode, welcome to Altville, where the quadrants are different and the points don't matter!, why can't you just pick a quadrant and stay there, yes that is its own warning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-19
Updated: 2013-06-01
Packaged: 2017-12-08 22:30:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 34,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quilly/pseuds/Quilly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Side A: Your name is Jane Crocker and you're tying up loose ends.</p><p>________________________________________________________________</p><p> </p><p>Side B: Your name is Dirk Strider and you don't care anymore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. See Jane Run

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a two-part event! Part two is still gestating in the idea stage, because Part One was such a biznatch to write. Fought me like a bag of furious cats (or one moderately irritable Karkat Vantas). Anyway. Read the tags, you'll get the gist. No big long summary of what is to come this time. Just read and please don't hit me too hard.
> 
> NOW WITH A COVER THANKS TO THE LOVELY SPLICKEDYLIT!: http://25.media.tumblr.com/fc8a67d9b39db045628dcf1866b0c27c/tumblr_mnfvqvn8hj1rz9wo6o1_1280.jpg

Your name is Jane Crocker, and your moirail is moving out.

 

You’ve talked about it, reasoned it out, and decided that it would be for the best. His relationship of four months is getting pretty serious—serious enough for Cronus to ask him to move in. You’re not happy. But you want Dirk to be. So what can you do?

 

It wasn’t lightly that Cronus Ampora asked, either. One does not flippantly throw out a “move in with me?” to a person with a steady two-year moirallegiance. But…if you’re being honest…maybe that moirallegiance hasn’t been doing so hot lately. Having a boyfriend and a full-time job are both draws on Dirk’s time, and you? You’re little more than a glorified best friend with a morbid hobby.

 

Doesn’t make it suck any less.

 

On the whole, you don’t mind Dirk’s fishy troll boyfriend. He’s kind of sleazy, but looks at Dirk like he’s made of gold. He flirts with you and all the movers and laughs when you all shoot him down, then goes to get “consoling” from Dirk, who obliges. You smile and laugh along even as the movers keep taking box after box downstairs.

 

When the last box is in the van, Cronus touches Dirk’s arm, smiles at you, and says, “I’ll be downstairs” in that funny bubbly accent of his. The apartment feels very empty and too big. You bite your lip.

 

“So…this is it,” you say. Your voice shakes.

 

Dirk nods, then wraps his arms around you so tightly you can’t breathe. Or maybe you’re about to cry.

 

“Hey,” he murmurs, “still pale for you, okay? This doesn’t change anything. I’m a phone call and a quick drive away.”

 

Your throat seems to have closed up. You just nod and try not to get snot on his shoulder. He kisses your forehead, and then he’s gone.

 

You let yourself feel everything, in that moment, crashing and raging, and allow yourself five minutes of abject weeping in the bathroom. That’s all. You suck it up and check your email. Nothing.

 

You scrub down the apartment, make sure the empty second room is swept clean, throw open the French doors to let the moist late spring air filter in, and sigh, irritated. Before you start picking at scabs or something equally distasteful you flip through your contacts and call people at random.

 

Maybe not entirely at random.

 

You get Vantas’ voicemail…again. Seems like that’s all you’ve been getting lately.

 

John…busy. Roxy…with Jake in the jungle for the next few weeks. Callie…not answering. Soon enough you’ve made it through your small list and sigh again, throwing your phone on the couch and draping yourself over the arm.

 

Your phone beeps.

 

You snatch it up, then frown. It’s an email, and the letterhead is speared with a familiar three-pronged red fork.

 

Every instinct tells you to delete the email. Your finger hovers. You bite your lip.

 

==>

 

The Crocker Estate is every bit as tacky as you remember, back when your dad used to take you and John to visit dearest Great-Grandmother. You’re not sure why she insisted on being called that; for one, she’s a troll, as high on the hemospectrum as it’s possible to go, and has that ageless look that makes her appear perpetually in her thirties. She rubs you all the wrong ways, but…she’s still family. Disinheritance notwithstanding.

 

Alright, maybe you’re just bored.

 

Everything is gold and pink and “under the sea” themed, and nothing in the manor, from the shag carpet to the neon ceiling paint, is at all to your taste. You sit in the shell-printed chair in front of her desk and wait. There are pictures of the two little trolls you remember she had with her once—Meenah Junior, who you heard chopped all her hair and hitched a bus to Derse City, and Feferi, who is…you’re not actually sure where. Feferi always managed to keep her life fairly private. The pictures are pretty old, probably back from the last time Meenah Senior tried to have a corporate picnic and include all her “heiresses”. You were still in high school, Meenah Junior just graduated, Feferi a sweet round-faced freshman at her private school. John had thrown up all over Meenah Senior’s Betty Crocker dress, as you recall.

 

Speak of the devil, and she will appear: in walks the lady herself, in a tight black leisure suit trimmed in fuchsia and wearing enough bling to blind a gangster. She grins at you, all teeth, and to your enormous surprise engulfs you in a hug. You try not to choke on her hair and manage to lightly squeeze her back.

 

“Janie, honey, what’s the haps?” she grins, settling behind her desk and lounging back in her chair. “You’re looking whale!”

 

You’re not sure if she meant “well” or if she’s making another crack about your weight, but you force a smile. “You as well, Great-Grandmother.”

 

“Stand up, gill, let me get a hook at you,” she says lazily. Her voice is rough from too many cigars. You recall modeling yourself like this whenever she wanted to see you in a new Betty Crocker Poster Child dress when you were young. Awful, frilly things, even for your taste. She _mm-mm-mmm_ s in her throat, shaking her head as you sit back down.

 

“You sent me an email?” you say softly, hoping to deflect her attention from you back to the help she needs from you. She waves a ring-encrusted hand (must be a sea-troll thing; Cronus was equally bedecked, as you recall).

 

“In a sec, let’s catch up a minnow. I heard you been detectifin’ since I cut you off.”

 

“Yes, ma’am,” you nod, doing your level best not to grit your teeth. “I was—I’m pretty good at it.”

 

She nods and _hmm_ s in her throat. “Heard you got yershellf a buoyfrond, too. Moved in and everyfin.”

 

“Moirail,” you correct. “There wasn’t anything…uh…nothing romantic going on.” You twist the hem of your skirt. “He moved out this morning.”

 

“Oh, snap,” she laughs, and you remember why you left in the first place, “trouble in paradise, huh?”

 

“His matesprit asked him to,” you say defensively, “and I didn’t see anything wrong with it. Not like I could stop him anyway, or should—we’re moirails, that’s it.”

 

“Aw, gill, you say that like it’s the shrimplest thing,” Meenah Senior guffaws, wiping a pale pink tear away from her eye from laughing so hard. “Whatevs. That’s enough bellyachin’ for today. Time to get to business.”

 

About dang time.

 

“You read all the words I sent your way, Janie?” she asks, and you nod. “Aight. Good. Don’t gotta explain everyfin all over again.”

 

“I do have a few questions,” you say.

 

“’course ya do,” Meenah replies, inspecting her manicure, bright pink tipped in gold. “Fire away.”

 

You pull up the email on your phone and reread it quickly, just to make sure.

 

“You’re absolutely certain this Mr. Captor is the only one with access to those files?”

 

“Abshellutely. He’s the only manta with enough spinefish to dugong it.”

 

You…think you picked up on that, but you’re not sure? She gets so obtuse when she overdoes the fish puns. Apparently she realizes this, because she rolls her eyes.

 

“Yeah, it’s him. I need those files back ASAP; got some sensitive junk on ‘em.”

 

“And, just so I’m aware, the nature of this sensitive junk is…?”

 

She sighs again and twists her mouth up.

 

“Captor’s an old…friend,” she says through clenched teeth. “Got a lot of fishtory between us. If what he’s got in those files gets out, it could ruin Crocker Corp. Get my drift?”

 

You blink. “I’m…not acting as middle man for a caliginous power play, am I?”

 

Meenah laughs. “Moraybe. Depends on what Captor does.” She leans back in her chair, inspecting her nails. “Kelp me updated. I expect results very soon.”

 

You curtsy and make your exit, your nerves grinding against each other. Out of all the ways you wanted to spend your life, playing messenger between Meenah Senior and this Captor guy is not one of them. You sigh, then take out your phone when it beeps.

 

_[CC]: I’M PAYIN YA T)(IS MUC)( FOR Y—ER S)(—ELLP. FIN IS)( T)(—E CAS—E IN T)(R—E—E DAYS AN I TRIPL—E IT._

 

The figure she sends you makes you woozy.

 

==>

 

Well, since you’re on the job and you know Dirk is busy settling in, your first task is to go to this…Mituna Captor? You Google him just to make sure Meenah didn’t misspell his name purposely to include a fish pun. No, that’s his actual name. He’s a programmer and custom computer designer along with his son Sollux. You note the address of the store and set off to see what the fuss is about.

 

It’s a small building, but it’s crammed with cars decorated with geek stickers of all kinds, and inside the shop is bedlam. You frown, but questioning will be easier when there aren’t as many people around. One of them might recognize you, anyway; according to Dirk, your blog has gotten quite popular in the past two years.

 

You check the open and close times. It doesn’t close until around eight. Which gives you…five hours to kill? Marvelous. Five hours of playing phone tag with a grumpy detective who is definitely avoiding you for some reason and a blissed-out former roommate. And a cherub full of wanderlust. When did your life get so _boring_?

 

You can’t take any other cases at the moment, you’re on special assignment. You aren’t hungry, you have nowhere to go, and you have to wait to gather your data.

 

In other words, your head feels like it’s about to burst.

 

But, hey, what else is new?

 

Therefore, when you feel the familiar slither of fetid clownbreath on the back of your neck as you wander aimlessly through downtown, you’re just glad it’s something to do. You shove your elbow into his stomach, and he grunts, but continues walking just behind you.

 

“What, is he ignoring you, too?” you ask grumpily.

 

“Neither here nor there, sis,” Gamzee replies. So that’s an affirmative. Hmm. “What’s a meatsack like you doin’ ‘round here this time of day?”

 

“Killing time,” you shrug. “What’re you sneaking around for?”

 

“Gettin’ my stretch on,” he says.

 

You walk like this in unfriendly and uncomfortable silence, but it’s not the first time the juggalo’s decided to follow you around while Karkat’s busy, so you just let it happen. Easier than trying to get him to leave you alone. He’s _still_ a little pitch for you. You’re in just the frame of mind where you think you might take it, if the sight of him didn’t make you want to punt him over a fence. At least it’d be _something_.

 

“Do you know what’s got him so busy nowadays?” you ask, just to fill the silence. Not like you’d actually expect Gamzee to remember, or tell you straight.

 

“Don’t rightly know, sis. Goes and works all day and comes home and broods all night. No manner of shooshing or papping can work those knots out of my miracle brother.” He sighs, and you feel a twinge of sympathy. “Where’s your mouthy heretic?”

 

“Getting cuddly with his boyfriend,” you reply. You’re not sure how your life came to this. “He moved out this morning.”

 

“You pink screechbeasts got your quadrants messed all up one side and down the other,” Gamzee chuckles. “Shoulda had the hearts move in. Ain’t no healthy thing to separate the diamonds, sis. Ain’t no healthy or proper thing.”

 

“There wasn’t room and it was just easier this way,” you snap. “Don’t you have crappy soda to drink or something?”

 

He chuckles but doesn’t leave. You consider stomping on his foot. He slides his bony arm around your shoulders and squashes you to his chest, patting your face too hard. You actually do stomp on his foot.

 

“Sis got her confusion on for her pale brother?” Gamzee says low, and you freeze up a little. “Detective sis got her observation on for everything but her own feelings?”

 

You shove him off. “I’ve told you three hundred times, Makara, humans don’t do caliginous. Go away and leave me alone, or I’ll get Karkat on your case.”

 

He grabs your arm and drags you, kicking and glaring, into a side-alley, slamming you against the wall and leaning down to look you hard in the face. His facepaint is ridiculous as ever, but he looks…strained. Tired.

 

“Aw, sis, that ain’t the full truth and you know it,” he breathes in your face. It reeks of sugary soda and unbrushed teeth. “Ain’t you a picture of misery? Ain’t you just the finest piece of contradiction?” He presses in closer, so close you can practically feel his fangs against your skin.

 

You consider it. You really do.

 

Then you tweak his nose hard and shove him back.

 

He honks and curses and you walk out of the alley feeling quite a bit more chipper than before. After a few minutes Gamzee lopes up behind you, which you expected, but the neck-breathing and attempts to make an alleyway tryst happen stop.

 

You are disgusted with yourself when you realize you’re a little disappointed.

 

==>

 

Somehow or another you manage to whittle away your time until the shop closes. Gamzee left after about an hour of wandering and sniping at each other, looking dissatisfied (which made you smug, not that you’d admit it). You just…wandered, until then. Took in the scenery. How long has it been since you walked Altville’s streets? Dirk called you once, but you ignored the call. You need to focus.

 

Captor and Son is mostly empty when you show up. There’s a troll, about Karkat’s age, wearing weird 3-D glasses and counting out the register and arranging shelves behind him with—what’re they called? Psionics? Either way, he’s the only one you can see in the whole shop, so you make your way towards him.

 

“We’re clothing in a few minuteth, lady,” he lisps at you, and you notice his eyes are blank, one red and one blue. “Buzz off.”

 

“Sorry, I’m not here for merchandise,” you shrug. “I’m Detective Crocker, and I’m here to see Mituna Captor.”

 

“He’th in the back,” the troll says without looking up. “What d’you need him for?”

 

“I need him to answer some questions,” you shrug. “Can I go on back?”

 

“No,” the troll grunts. “Hang on a thec.” He finishes with the register, steadies a few boxes behind him with his hands, then barks, “Hey, MT! Got thomeone to thee you!”

 

Nothing happens for a few minutes, and then an older-looking troll with a liberal dusting of silver in his hair comes through the door to the storage room, a pair of glasses on his nose similar to the younger troll’s and eyes exactly the same. He’s a little stooped, but his movements are sure. He frowns when he sees you.

 

“Miss Crocker,” he says, his lisp much better-contained, “what can I do for you?”

 

“Is there someplace we can talk in private?” you ask. He sighs, motioning for you to follow, and goes back into the store room. It’s quiet and cramped, but it’ll do.

 

“Look, Mr. Captor,” you sigh, “I won’t pretend to understand what I’m even doing here, but Meenah is under the impression you have some files that will implicate her and her business, and I would like to resolve the issue as quickly as possible and return to my other cases. Can you shed some light on the subject?”

 

Mr. Captor leans back against a shelf, sighing.

 

“That old bat,” he says, voice a curious mixture of disdainful and wistful. “I’m sorry she mixed you up in this, Miss Crocker. What she’s asking for is something I’m not going to part with, and I’m not going to tell you what it is. If she asks, you can tell her politely to fillet her nook.”

 

You are more than a little annoyed with people keeping secrets from you. So you do what you do best: you observe.

 

He’s a yellow-blood, obviously, given the psionics combined with a yellowish tinge to the bags under his eyes and the liver spots on his hands. A technology man, through and through; his hands have curious burns and oddly shiny calluses, thin and sure. He isn’t wearing a bangle or bauble with another blood color on it, so his quadrants are probably empty or filled with people he doesn’t want anyone to know about (would explain the lack of fuchsia anywhere on his person, if he’s caliginous with Meenah, which you now very strongly suspect). His clothes are old and worn, but upon closer inspection you think they were probably very expensive. A frivolous purchase? No, he’s a small businessman, he wouldn’t be so careless. A gift, then. From Meenah? Clothes, especially nice clothes, are an odd gift for a kismesis, so what…? Unless they didn’t have an entirely black relationship?

 

“But, seriously, what exactly is it you have, Mr. Captor?” you ask out loud. “What is she so afraid of?”

 

“That’s my own secret, Miss Crocker,” Mr. Captor replies firmly. “If Peixes didn’t tell you, I’m not going to, either. I can only assure you of two things. One, she is not going to get her gaudy claws on it. Two, she doesn’t need to worry about it falling into the wrong hands. It’s just for my own protection.”

 

Interesting. A violent and possessive blackrom, perhaps? You would expect that of Meenah. And he’s referred to the item as an “it” rather than “files”, as Meenah told you, which is very curious indeed. One file in particular? You’re positive it’s nothing explicit of their relationship, since Meenah likely wouldn’t be so jumpy if it were dirty photos or something like that; Mr. Captor is a normal citizen, by all standards. So definitely something about Meenah that Mr. Captor would have had access to if he was spending a lot of time with her.

 

He’s a computer genius. Probably wouldn’t take very much to hack her files and get away with something dangerous. But _what?_

 

“You’re not going to let this go, are you?” Mr. Captor sighs, and you blink.

 

“I’m not saying that,” you reply mildly. “I’m just trying to gather information, is all.”

 

“Let me tell you straight up, kid,” Mr. Captor shrugs. “Get out of this mess while you can. I don’t know what Meenah’s playing at, dredging all this up years later and dragging you into it, but she’s not going to get me to play. Not this time.”

 

You hear the note of finality. You’re not sure how you feel about it.

 

“Thank you anyway, Mr. Captor,” you reply, and hold out your hand to shake. He gives your hand a quick pump and folds his arms back over his thin chest.

 

“I’ve been following your blog, Miss Crocker,” he says as you go to exit. “You have an impressive track record. But believe me when I say that this is one case you don’t want to get mixed up in.”

 

“What do you mean?” you say, voice a little too innocent.

 

“I mean that out of all the things you’ve done, the smartest was getting yourself cut out of the family tree,” Mr. Captor sighs. “Keep up the good work. Don’t let her drag you into this one. It’ll only end badly for you.”

 

“I’ll keep that in mind,” you say. “Thank you for your time.”

 

You leave the store feeling unsettled and curious. You check your phone. Dirk didn’t call again.

 

==>

 

You wake the next morning to your phone ringing. You blink blearily, grasp for it, and shove it against your ear.

 

“Dirk?”

 

“Nope!” John chirps, and you groan, rolling over. “Geez, Jane, way to make your little bro feel good!”

 

“Sorry,” you mumble. “What’s up?”

 

“Just checking up on you,” he says. “You doing okay?”

 

“I’m fine, John,” you sigh. He snorts. “Seriously. I’ve been better, but I’ve been a lot worse, too, so I’m rounding out at a nice even ‘meh’.”

 

“Well, so long as you’re not…I dunno…meeting up with the Batterwitch for whatever reason,” he says casually.

 

“The—who, now?”

 

“Batterwitch. Uh, Great-Grandma Crocker. You know, the evil troll who kicked us out of her family tree?”

 

“She didn’t kick _you_ out, doofus, just me,” you argue. “Why on earth are you calling her the Batterwitch?”

 

“Oh, that’s what Vriska calls her,” John explains. “Supposed to be her ‘street’ name or whatever.”

 

“Since when does the CEO of Betty Crocker have a street name?”

 

“I dunno, that’s just what people call her,” John replies. “I’m surprised you haven’t heard it before, as much time as you spend working with the criminal element!”

 

“I don’t work _with_ —never mind.” You scrub your hand through your hair. “I dunno, I guess I heard it a few times, but I didn’t know they were talking about Meenah. And how did you know I was talking to her?”

 

“You’re kinda famous, Jane. People notice you.”

 

That makes you feel all kinds of nervous. You hadn’t thought about that. Ever since the disinheritance became finalized you haven’t really had to deal with widespread attention. It’s not like you’re being hounded by paparazzi (though you might’ve been a little popular after the Felt and Midnight Crew cases), but you’re suddenly struck how easy it is for people to watch you, now. You suddenly resolve that the next time you see Gamzee you’re going to punch him right in the nose.

 

That also means that doing your job might be a little more complicated. If it’s already circulating that you’re at least in contact with Meenah—who is the Batterwitch now, apparently?—it could be detrimental to your future business.

 

Oh, crap, that also means Dirk knows what’s going on.

 

“Jane? You still there?”

 

“Yeah,” you say automatically. “How’d you know I was visiting Meenah?”

 

“Your Tumblr following,” John replies. “Someone snapped a few pics of you coming out of the Crocker estate. And you and Karkat’s moirail in an alley?”

 

Yep. You are going to break Gamzee’s nose.

 

“That’s…creepy.”

 

“If you make a blog post or something saying ‘don’t take pics of me’, some of ‘em will stop,” John laughs. “At least the gossip rags are keeping out of it, right?”

 

Ugh. You’ve had plenty of experience with them.

 

“I’m just sayin’, you’re in charge of your own PR now, so you might wanna leap on that,” John says. “Also, Dirk called me in the middle of the night. He’s afraid you’re mad at him.”

 

You sigh. “I’ll talk to him. Thanks for calling, John.”

 

“Any time, sis.”

 

You resist the urge to berate him for calling you that. He’s your brother. He’s allowed to.

 

You hang up and drag yourself out of bed, going into the kitchen to make tea while you stall. Dirk is still the one in charge of the blog. You don’t want to tear him away from his job or his boyfriend, because that’s what crappy friends do, but…you know what, he’s still your moirail, he still deserves to know.

 

You call him up.

 

It goes to voicemail.

 

You sigh.

 

==>

 

You’re thinking, as you listlessly ignore your tea, that perhaps the “item” Mr. Captor is keeping and that Meenah is nervous about might have something to do with the Batterwitch.

 

You’ve heard the name before, but you never paid it any mind, because it always seemed more of an urban legend than anything. Karkat certainly made no bones about how much of a waste of time he thought chasing any leads with that name on it was. You were nineteen when you first heard the name as a possible connection to the Midnight Crew. Karkat was twenty-two human years and jumpy. You think back on that first case with a small modicum of fondness. You didn’t like Karkat back then. He was too pushy, too eager to run you off before you proved yourself. Then you messed up and the Midnight Crew got away, but still. You’ve been growing to like the nubby grumpy-pants since then.

 

At least, you thought you did, before he stopped returning your calls.

 

You even Google “Batterwitch”, just to see. Nothing but a kooky conspiracy website and a bunch of shooped Betty Crocker photos. Lame.

 

You try Dirk again. Must be at work.

 

Time for you to head that way yourself.

 

==>

 

The look on Karkat Vantas’ face when you slam your hands on his desk is picture-worthy. You wish you had a camera. He’s tangled himself up in his landline cord with swiveling around in his chair, whatever ornery conversation he was holding cut off because he can’t stop mouthing at you.

 

You raise your eyebrows.

 

“Thank you, Mr. Cavendish, I’ll get back to you on that,” he finally croaks. “No, no, I’m fine. We’ll get it sorted out, though again, I need to remind you that we can’t do much until you pay your outstanding parking tickets. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

 

He untangles himself with some difficulty and hangs up the phone.

 

“Crocker, what are you even doing here?”

 

“Coming to see you in person, since you’re apparently too busy for me,” you say calmly, sitting down in one of the chairs on the other side of the desk. “And for your moirail, if Gamzee’s brain-damaged ramblings can be trusted.”

 

His face is entirely too guarded.

 

“My moirallegiance is none of your business, Crocker.”

 

“It is if he’s coming to me for attention,” you snap back. “Make him stop that, by the way, I’m not interested.” He turns pink, but his expression doesn’t change. “What’s going on, Detective? You’ve been cagey since Slick’s sentencing.”

 

Vantas does what he’s been doing for the past few months and doesn’t answer, instead opting to drain his coffee mug and rearrange his pens. You sigh and stand.

 

“Good talk, Karkat,” you say. “Whatever’s wrong, at least promise me you’ll try to get help, okay?”

 

He snorts. “Sure thing, Jane.”

 

His voice is sardonic as usual, but something in his voice and his face seems…desperate. You chew your lip, but shrug and leave. Vantas is a big boy, he can take care of himself. Whatever bee flew up his nose isn’t your concern.

 

What _is_ your concern is him not seeing you when you take a left turn instead of a right outside of his office so you can go to evidence storage.

 

The sleepy old cop in charge shrugs and lets you in when you say it’s for a case, and you know just what box you’re looking for.

 

It still smells faintly of your dad’s cologne when you open the lid, and you touch the bags covering the blood-spattered clothing tenderly. You only managed to get his old fedora out of this box after a very long argument. Good old Dad. You miss him so much.

 

Vantas is going to have your hide if he catches you in here, so you sort quickly and put the box back when your search turns up nothing of significance. You wonder how much trouble you’d be in if you broke into the records office, then decide it’s worth it and tiptoe down the hall.

 

The room is dusty and dark, but you know your way around by now. You riffle through an old filing cabinet and produce your dad’s murder case. It’s been touched recently, probably by Vantas. There’s a newspaper clipping of Slick’s conviction paperclipped to the inside, which you appreciate. If you didn’t know better, you would’ve thought he did it knowing you’d be sneaking in here.

 

But as fun as it would be to revisit the gory details, you _are_ here for another reason.

 

You boot up the ancient computer tucked between the cabinets, and after two guesses hack into it with Detective Vantas’ credentials. Then you search _Batterwitch_.

 

Most of the results are from suspects’ testimonies, but notice that the farther back you go, the more the name is attached to cold cases. Specifically, within the past twenty or so years, there have been no less than ten murder cases—

 

 _Three_ of which you recognize.

 

One, the Hansons.

 

Two, your dad.

 

Three, a troll named Kankri Vantas, who you’re 99% certain is Karkat’s direct genetic ancestor.

 

Your brain crashes several times trying to process this.

 

You read through Kankri Vantas’ case, because you remember hearing something about it when you were really little. Once upon a time, there used to be a series of troll laws that were incredibly discriminatory against lowbloods (in reference to an ancient troll tradition known as the hemocaste, which exists more in theory than anything else today), and Kankri Vantas, a mutant blood, was the most revolutionary anti-hemocaste activist of his time. His revolution more or less ended when he was mysteriously and brutally murdered, only to be taken up a few years later by a brownblooded troll, with better results (although, if you remember correctly, that troll was also murdered, but that’s not important right now).

 

His murder description is in excruciating detail: wrists bound with police-grade handcuffs and then heated until his wrists were more or less char, broken ribs and other bones from a savage beating, skin flayed, one narrow stab wound that looked like it was done with an arrow or something similar…you can’t imagine how that death must have felt. Since you yourself got stabbed you’ve wondered a lot about your dad’s death, with three stabs to the chest. You can’t even begin to comprehend how horrific Kankri Vantas’ death must have been to endure. You feel pretty sick to your stomach.

 

The only note, same as with the Hansons and James Egbert, is that the Batterwitch was cited as a suspect by sources less-than-reliable. A homeless drunkard, a hysterical matesprit…a grubby carapacian criminal boss.

 

Why does Spades Slick’s confession to the Hanson debacle include…?

 

You don’t have time to even remotely process this, because the screen suddenly goes black and you realize that a very, _very_ angry Karkat Vantas is holding the plug.

 

“Get,” he says, his voice ice, “out.”

 

You stand up, torn between fear (because Vantas is growling) and your own brand of cold fury.

 

“What do you know about the Batterwitch?” you blurt, because you are sick to death of Vantas ignoring you and no one giving you the answers you’re looking for.

 

He goes oddly stiff, and a flash of fear steals over his face. He gets himself under control fairly quickly.

 

“Just a horror story. Get out of here before I arrest you for—”

 

“That’s a lie and you know it!” you yell, and he stops mid-sentence. “Horror stories don’t end up on official records!”

 

“On official—” Karkat swears and grabs his hair, yanking as he starts to pace. “What—which records?”

 

You look at him, and things… _almost_ start to clunk into place.

 

“Detective Vantas, how close were you and Kankri?”

 

Karkat’s head gives an odd jerk. “What kind of question is—”

 

“Things would be so much easier for both of us if you would stop trying to play dumb and avoid my questions and give me some _answers!_ ” You don’t mean to shout the last word. Karkat flinches.

 

“I never even knew the guy,” he says harshly, stuffing his hands in his pockets. “Trolls don’t generally take in their offspring, if they can even find them. It’s rare cases. He was dead when I was still just a wriggler.”

 

“When did you find out he was your father?”

 

He grunts. “I object to your human labeling. But I’ve always known. He never made a big secret about—about his blood color.” He unconsciously rubs his wrist. “Why does this matter?”

 

“Do you know of any of Kankri’s friends? Maybe old activist partners who might still be around?”

 

He shrugs. “Stories always say he had a core group that he hung around with, but as far as I know, they’re all dead but one. Yellow-blood, I think. Don’t remember his name.”

 

“Mituna Captor?” you guess. Karkat blinks.

 

“Uh…yeah. How did you—”

 

“I met him yesterday. It’s a long story, I don’ wanna go through it,” you say tiredly. “You still haven’t answered my question. What do you know about the Batterwitch?”

 

Karkat’s jaw works, clenching and unclenching, and his throat bobs. Pupils dilated. He’s scared. Terrified. But why?

 

You sigh and rub your face.

 

“The Batterwitch is Meenah Peixes,” you say, “the head of the Betty Crocker Corporation.  She was at involved with Kankri’s death, and the Hansons, and probably even—even my dad’s.” You swallow hard. “Yesterday she emailed me about recovering some files from Mituna Captor, and I thought it was just some kinky caliginous powerplay she was throwing me in the middle of for whatever reason, but Captor would have the know-how to steal evidence that she truly had a hand in all of these crimes and more, and the skill to change police records to at least hint at the truth.”

 

You look at Karkat, deadpan, dulling yourself against the emotions threatening to overwhelm you. You’ve been feeling entirely too much recently. “But he wouldn’t have to do that if the files mentioned the Batterwitch in the first place.”

 

You stare at each other for a long time, neither of you saying anything. Karkat breaks first, running his hand through his hair.

 

“She approached me the day I made it onto the force, not long before your dad was killed,” he says quietly. “Made a…uh…very convincing argument, to derail or cover up any tracks of the Batterwitch in any cases that come my way. I don’t know how many other officers she’s been blackmailing, but…”

 

“How could you?” you find yourself saying, your voice small and hurt. “Karkat, how could you do that? To all those other families? To _me_?”

 

He looks at you, a snarl on his mouth and eyes blazing.

 

“Just because you’ve managed to worm your way onto Karkat’s List of People He Cares About, don’t think for a _second_ you’re the only one on that list,” he says, and his voice is very low and deadly. “I did what I had to do to keep the people I love safe. And I still think that keeping you _out_ of this mess is the only reason why you’re still alive. I don’t regret it, not for a second.”

 

You stand and without a word walk past him. He doesn’t move to stop you.

 

You get to the door when he says, “What are you going to do?”

 

 “I hope all those people you care about are still safe,” you reply. “Goodbye, Detective.”

 

You leave the precinct and know that you are never going to step into that building again.

 

==>

 

You go straight to the Captor shop and don’t wait for the traffic to die down. Apparently it causes something of an impact when you open the door looking like you’re about to murder someone, because old man Captor detaches himself from a customer and goes to head you off.

 

“Miss Crocker—”

 

“I know what the item is,” you blurt, a little louder than you intended, and he drags you back to the store room. “I mean, I think I know. I have an idea.”

 

He fixes you with a very penetrating stare, his horns faintly crackling red and blue. “Oh?”

 

“She’s the Batterwitch,” you say simply. “You found evidence, concrete evidence, that would tie her back to all those crimes she’s had a hand in, including Kankri Vantas’ murder.” He flinches hard when he hears that name, horns and eyes both fizzing with power, and you feel a momentary stab of fear. “And you probably knew that she’s blackmailing at least one police officer into covering her tracks, so you hacked the Altville Police database and inserted her in. Very clean. Very neat. No way to trace it back to yourself, and if she ever slips up in the future, the evidence will already be there.”

 

He’s grown very calm. “Well done, Miss Crocker. I can’t fathom how you pieced it together so quickly.”

 

“I…have nothing going on right now,” you reply. “Wasn’t so hard, once I had enough data.”

 

“And what will you do now?” he asks casually, too casually for your liking. You belatedly remember that this is the same troll who staged protests and riots and never saw any jail time. Also he has freaky mind powers.

 

“I don’t know,” you sigh. “I…”

 

Something hits a discordant note in your brain.

 

“Hang on,” you frown, “I thought you said that you were keeping the information close? For protection?”

 

“That was the story I was intending you to go back to her with, yes,” Captor says wryly. “You continue to defy expectation, Miss Crocker.”

 

“And…would she have believed it?” you murmur. “Why did she need me to come try and talk you out of whatever it is you had when she knows that once I found out, I wouldn’t work for her? Surely she can’t think so lowly of me to believe I wouldn’t eventually find out what the files contained…or what they would mean to me…unless…she wanted me to find out?”

 

You look at Mr. Captor, whose expression is blank but not purposely. He looks even more confused than you are.

 

“What sort of game is she trying to play here?” you ask, and he just shrugs.

 

Your head hurts and you don’t know what to think or feel anymore. You feel overloaded, like a soaked sponge. You wish Dirk was here with you.

 

“Miss Crocker?” Mr. Captor’s voice pulls you out of your musings. “I don’t think I need to tell you what will happen if Meenah finds out I already leaked the files, do I?”

 

“’course not,” you say hollowly. “I think, Mr. Captor, you’re forgetting that she arranged for a lot more than just Kankri’s death.” You walk towards the door. “Have a good night.”

 

You wander blankly back to your apartment, walk inside, lock the door, and make a beeline for your room. You feel like you’re drifting away.

 

And then a hand catches around your waist, and you feel anchored for the first time in a surprisingly long time.

 

Dirk presses his mouth to your temple and murmurs at you in a low voice, but you can’t even parse his words together right now. You simply turn and bury your face in his chest, hoping you’re not dreaming or hallucinating, because you need him so badly right now.

 

Somehow or another you make it to your room and take up your traditional cuddle positions on your bed, but Dirk doesn’t talk after he probably tries to initiate a conversation a few times and fails. You don’t want to talk. You want to soak up his warmth and not feel too warm and fuzzy that he’s ditching his boyfriend only the second night of living together to come and check on you. His hands speak a language you can understand more easily at the moment, anyway—clutching you close ( _I missed you_ ), tracing your back ( _Are you okay?_ ), thumbing your scars ( _I’m worried about you_ ), kissing your forehead and into your hair ( _Pale for you_ ).

 

You know that at some point you’re going to have to tell him what’s going on. It’ll drive him crazy if he has to figure it out on his own. But right now, you are not doing words, you are not letting yourself truly process the Batterwitch, you are not doing any of that. You are letting Dirk shoosh and pap and soothe, and leeching it up like a black hole.

 

Appropriate. That’s about what you’ve been feeling like ever since you realized his touch left you burning and hungry instead of soothed and comforted. But him not touching you at all is the very worst. You can’t deal with that.

 

You are a messed-up woman, Jane Crocker.

 

You fall asleep as he starts to hum, his chest vibrating pleasantly and your hand fisted in his shirt.

 

==>

 

You are very surprised to find he’s still wrapped around you when you wake up. You consider letting the crashing wave of drowsiness pull you back under, then lift your head and kiss Dirk’s chin. He stirs awake soon after.

 

“Hey,” you grin. He smoothes your cheek with his knuckles and smiles back.

 

“Hey.”

 

You stare at each other for a few minutes, and you can practically feel the concern radiating off of Dirk as he wakes up a little more. You probably don’t look your best, what with the emotional drain the past couple of days have been, but you feel very light and detached at the moment.

 

Dirk leans forward and kisses your forehead again, then rolls out of bed, you following. While he uses the bathroom, you go into the kitchen and start pouring two bowls of cereal. He waits until you’ve drained your milk before popping the question you’ve been expecting.

 

“What’s up with you lately?”

 

You study him as he toys with his spoon. Fading hickeys on his collarbone, shadows under his eyes, gaze flicking to his phone on occasion, which is sitting on the counter next to him, slight smile when his face relaxes. Your chest throbs involuntarily.

 

For a long moment, you consider playing it off. He doesn’t need to be worrying about you right now. But his eyes flick up to you expectantly.

 

“Been unraveling a case,” you say, voice casual. “Digging through some cold cases. Making connections. Just some cleanup work for the past few years, no big deal.”

 

He stares at you flatly.

 

“Then why is the blog blowing up with concerns about the Batterwitch?”

 

You didn’t realize he probably knew that name already.

 

“She sent me an email a few days ago,” you shrug. “I went to see what the problem was.”

 

“And?”

 

“And nothing,” you say. “Told her I couldn’t help her. Left. That’s it.”

 

Dirk gives you the most penetrating of stares and you hate that he knows you’re lying even when you give it your best shot. You hope this is going to be one of those times where he just lets it go.

 

“Okay,” he says, and you nearly sigh. “So what’ve you been up to other than tying up loose ends?”

 

“Baking,” you say glibly. He snorts.

 

“Clearly. Look at all the baked goods you’re drowning in here.”

 

The kitchen is bare and you crack a grin, though it feels thin on your face.

 

You avoid each other’s gazes for a good long while. Or maybe you just avoid his. You hate this. It didn’t used to be this way and you’re not sure when everything went downhill.

 

“How’s Cronus?” you ask, just because the silence feels too heavy on your heart.

 

“Fine.”

 

After another moment you announce your intention to take a shower and instead go crouch under the hot water and let frustrated tears escape your eyes. You thought you were being quiet, but when Dirk knocks on the door you stop breathing mid-sob.

 

“Jane?”

 

“What?”

 

The door jiggles open. You sigh and shut off the water. He passes you a towel over the rod, and you wrap yourself up tightly and push back the curtain. Dirk thumbs a drop of water from under your eye, sits down on the toilet, and pulls you into his lap, still soaked.

 

“Pale for you,” Dirk says quietly. You press your face into his neck and wish you could say what you know he’s waiting for back. He sighs, a very tiny sound, and clutches you tight. It’s almost perfect.

 

==>

 

Dirk leaves for work and you are still feeling like a black hole when there’s a knock at your door. You frown, go to it, and open it.

 

“Hello, Jane,” Calliope grins, and you break into a genuine smile. “Long time, no see, yes?”

 

“Callie!” you squeal, and you hug her with far more cheer than you’ve felt in a good long while. “Come in! Can I get you anything?”

 

“No, I’m fine, thank you,” Calliope replies, following you inside. “My, it does seem quite cavernous without Dirk! Are you managing alright, dear?”

 

You still have a smile on your face and you intend on giving her the same answer you’ve given everyone else, but Calliope’s large green eyes are so very concerned, and you are so…tired.

 

You end up bursting into tears (again…how many times are you going to do this?) and spilling your guts as Calliope pats you on the back, her large clawed hand oddly soothing. You tell her about your confused feelings for Dirk, and about Cronus, even though she already knows. You tell her about the Batterwitch and about your strong suspicions, about Karkat and his betrayal. You even tell her about Gamzee. She listens with a serious look on her face, making little noises of sympathy, and when you’re done and all cried out she gives you another hug.

 

“That is quite a lot to be getting on with, dear,” she says. “Have you talked to anyone else about this? Or Dirk?”

 

“No,” you shake your head. “I just…didn’t want to bother anyone else with it. They’re my problems. Everyone else is so busy.”

 

“No one who calls themselves your friend is ever too busy for you, darling,” Calliope says gently. “I am truly sorry I haven’t talked with you sooner.”

 

“You had cherub things to do, it’s no big deal,” you shrug, waving your hand flippantly. “Honestly, I’m—”

 

“Jane Crocker, if you are about to say you are ‘fine’, we will have very strong words,” Calliope frowns. “You are clearly not fine!”

 

You shrug, because what else can you do? Calliope _tsk_ s in her throat and gives your shoulders another squeeze.

 

“Have you spoken with Dirk about your feelings, at least?”

 

“What would be the point?” you ask. “He has a boyfriend, and he’s made it very clear he only feels pale for me. I should be grateful to have him as anything, even a moirail, even as just a friend. I…can’t help but feel…greedy.”

 

“It’s not greedy to acknowledge your own feelings,” Calliope replies. You give another half-hearted shrug. “You should really talk to Dirk, truly talk with him. It’s not unusual for a human moirail to become romantically attached in the flushed sense to their palemate. Perhaps talking out your feelings is the key to overcoming them.”

 

You nod, the listless feeling returning. “I’ll think about it.”

 

“Good.” Calliope suddenly looks guilty. “I wish I could say this was a purely friendly visit, but I did have an ulterior motive in coming to see you, I’m afraid.”

 

Your senses sharpen somewhat. “What is it?”

 

She fiddles with her claws.

 

“How familiar are you with cherub habits?”

 

“Uh…a little,” you admit. “Why? What’s wrong?”

 

“Well, since I predominated my brother, I’ve been…taking care of certain things,” she says delicately. “It’s tradition for a cherub to stake his or her territory once the maturation process is complete, and that is more or less what I’ve been doing for the past year.”

 

Well, that’s one mystery solved. You suspected as much, and know that Roxy will be pleased to know Callie hasn’t been avoiding her and Jake since moving out, at least not intentionally.

 

“When a cherub claims territory, she becomes that area’s protector, if she is benevolent-aligned like me, or tormentor, if she’s malignant-aligned like my brother,” Calliope explains. “I have been attempting to ascertain a variety of threats to my domain, you might say. And I believe I’ve found one.”

 

“The Batterwitch,” you guess, and Calliope nods.

 

“I have been doing a little bit of digging on my own,” she says, “and I believe that I’ve more or less figured out her plan.”

 

“Plan?”

 

“Yes,” Calliope nods. “But my real reason for coming is—Jane, will you help me to carry out my own plan to stop her?”

 

You consider saying no. You can’t afford to get mixed up in something this big. You have other people relying on you. But as you look at Callie’s big green eyes and earnest expression, your little doubts start surfacing again. Dirk doesn’t need you, he has Cronus. John has Vriska. Karkat has Gamzee and his guilt. Jake and Roxy have each other.

 

Who does Jane have?

 

“I’m in,” you nod, and shake Calliope’s extended hand.

 

==>

 

“Been three days, guppy,” Meenah frowns as you fold your hands on your lap primly. “You got my junk?”

 

“I’m afraid Mr. Captor was less than forthcoming,” you reply. “He has informed me that whatever it was he took, he has no intention of disclosing it unless threatened.”

 

Meenah’s frown doesn’t change, but her eyes turn to ice. You could swear the temperature lowers.

 

“That ain’t what I said,” she says softly. “Did I or did I not shell you I wanted what he stole back?”

 

“I—”

 

“Wasn’t that what I told you?”

 

“Mr. Captor—”

 

She stands up and paces around her desk, leaning too far into your personal bubble for comfort.

 

“Wasn’t that what I told you?” she repeats, quietly, cold fish breath practically freezing your face. You meet her eyes, collected and calm as you’ve ever been.

 

“Give it up,” you say, equally softly. “He’s not going to part with them, and I don’t have the resources to steal them back. It’s a lost cause.”

 

Her hands twitch. You don’t flinch. She can’t do anything worse to you than she’s already done.

 

She smoothes herself down and returns to her chair, swiveling around so the high back is turned to you. You wait.

 

“I’m disappointed in you, Jane,” she says. “I expected betta.”

 

“I’m a detective, not a miracle worker,” you reply. “Is that all?”

 

“He tell you what the info was?”

 

“No.”

 

She’s silent for a long time.

 

“Get outta here.”

 

You curtsy to the chair and make your exit.

 

“Jane.”

 

You pause, hand still on the back of your chair.

 

“If I find out you lied to me, gill, there’ll be shell to pay,” she says simply.

 

“Don’t be silly, Great-Grandmother. Why would I do that?” You smile faintly as she spins around, eyes very sharp. You incline your head a little and don’t break eye contact. “Goodbye.”

 

You feel her eyes on you all the way out.

 

==>

 

“How’d it go?”

 

You scoop spaghetti onto a plate and hand it to Calliope. “Well enough. She’s naturally suspicious, but I think so far she doesn’t suspect.”

 

“Good.” Calliope dwarfs the card table. It’s a little funny, but when she looks at you quizzically you just shake your head and try to do a better job of hiding your smile. “You understand that this is going to be hard, right? I wouldn’t ask if I didn’t…”

 

“It’s fine,” you shrug. “It would be harder if everyone wasn’t already taken care of.”

 

“She’ll come after them,” Calliope warns. You nod.

 

“They can also all take care of themselves,” you say. “How soon will the next step be carried out?”

 

“Two weeks, at the Crocker Corp press release,” Calliope replies. “The idea is that Captor will hack the networks and together you’ll make the truth known.”

 

“Think it’ll work?” you ask.

 

“If we’re careful,” she nods. “Our objective is to boost awareness; it might not work, but at least it’ll get people thinking.”

 

You’re too used to your stomach being a hard knot to pay it much mind.

 

“And if things go very bad?”

 

“We’ll think of that when we come to it,” Calliope replies, dabbing at her mouth. “One thing at a time.”

 

You toy with your noodles for the rest of the meal.

 

==>

 

You more or less have your speech memorized by the time the day rolls around. You’ve seen Dirk a couple more times, and both times he brought Cronus, so you can’t decide if you’re relieved for the buffer or irritable for the distraction. He has no idea what you’re about to do, and if he did…well, you’re pretty sure he’d be strapping you to the top of the Scion with duct tape and driving as fast as he can towards Skaia City to visit your brother.

 

It still would’ve been nice to see him before you potentially toss everything down the toilet.

 

No going back now.

 

Town Hall is surrounded by cops and thronging with reporters, and you quietly slip in, making sure you and Detective Vantas are not anywhere within yelling or looking distance. Calliope is too noticeable for public appearances, but you see the twinned horns of a Captor hovering near the gaggle of cameras. You think it might be Sollux.

 

Meenah is standing by the pulpit as the funny little carapacian mayor smiles and waves at the public in the moments before the broadcast is scheduled to start. She’s dressed to the nines in a charcoal suit jacket and skirt combo, a ruffled fuchsia blouse the only slash of color in her ensemble. Her mass of hair has been tamed back and her sharp eyes are scanning the crowd. You smile indulgently when she spots you, but she doesn’t do anything other than furrow her brow.

 

The mayor’s attention is called back to the cameras soon enough, and in his squeaky voice he begins thanking the citizenry of Altville, the police force, and the various news stations.

 

“But, of course,” he smiles, “it’s my utmost privilege to extend Altville’s thanks to our most enterprising entrepreneur, the face of the most household name in the nation and generous benefactor to many Altville programs: Ms. Meenah Peixes!”

 

There’s polite applause. You clap, too.

 

“With her contributions, Altville’s pulled through many hard times!” the mayor continues. “Why, she even paid for the reconstruction after that horrible Felt business almost two years ago! She is a lovely dame and a generous philanthropist to boot, so please, let’s hear it for Betty Crocker!”

 

The applause is slightly more enthusiastic as Meenah takes the podium.

 

“Thank you, Mayor, you’re too kind,” she says smilingly. “Citizens of Altville, I thank you for this honor. I do. It means so much to me personally, and to my family, who are all honored, though they couldn’t make it today.”

 

It’s so strange, to see her slip back into her professional self. You’d almost forgotten she knows how to speak like a regular person.

 

“This city has done so much for my business, and it seems like such a small thing to give back now and then.” She smiles, right at you. “That’s why I would like to do two things, if that’s alright with you, Mayor.”

 

He smiles blissfully and nods. Meenah’s eyes never leave your face.

 

“First, I would like to officially announce my intention to donate one hundred thousand dollars to the Altville Police Department,” she says, to much camera-clicking and shouts from the reporters, “for them to update their equipment, their files, and repair any structural damage to the premises.”

 

Her grin widens. You frown.

 

“And I would like to invite Jane Crocker to stand here next to me.”

 

Your stomach bottoms out. You are jostled and pushed forward. You’re not sure what to do. You numbly take Meenah’s outstretched hand as she yanks you up beside her.

 

“Jane and I have a rough history, that’s no secret,” Meenah says pleasantly, “but right now, before everyone, I would like to formally extend my forgiveness.” She grabs your shoulder and squeezes it tight. “I forgive you for turning your back on my company, Jane. I forgive you for walking away from me and your family obligations. And I would like to take measures to reverse your necessary cutting-off.”

 

The cameras flash. Her teeth are glimmering white against her grey skin. You look at her for a good long while, forever, it seems like; her claws are sharp and her smile is sharper. You look at her and remember your dad’s sympathy cakes after a particularly arduous photo shoot that ended in her screaming herself hoarse at you, and John’s wide teary eyes after she slapped him across the face—in public, no less—for contradicting her in front of the press.

 

“No,” you find yourself saying. Her face doesn’t change.

 

“No,” you repeat. “I don’t accept.”

 

“Come, come, Jane,” the mayor pipes, “do be reasonable!”

 

“Yes, _dearest_ Jane,” Meenah grins. “ _Do_ be reasonable.”

 

You glare and shrug off her hand. “Altville, I have something to say.”

 

The cameras flash. The reporters jostle each other. You look right at Detective Vantas, who is very pale and mouthing “no” at you repeatedly. You glance to the Captor (it is Sollux). He nods.

 

“This woman,” you say clearly, “is responsible for all of the hard times in my life. She’s responsible for the negative body image, the familial shame, and a last name that gets me funny looks no matter where I go.

 

“But most of all,” you say, wondering why no one is trying to bodily pull you from the stage yet, “she’s responsible for my father’s murder.”

 

Ah, there we go.

 

The crowd is in pandemonium and you have to hold onto the podium with both hands as a scuffle breaks out behind you.

 

“Yes!” you shout into the microphones. “It’s true! She’s the underground criminal boss known as the Batterwitch! Open your eyes, people! She’s pulling all the strings here, all of them! The old hemocaste laws, the Midnight Crew murders, and it’s only going to get worse!”

 

You feel a pair of arms clamp around you and start to drag you offstage. You keep screaming, but now you’re devolving from your carefully-memorized lines.

 

“She killed my dad! She’s the reason he’s dead!” You look at her, at her widely smiling face as you’re muscled away, and you struggle hard. You hear swearing and realize Detective Vantas is the one taking you away. “ _You killed him! I know it was you!_ ”

 

“Jane, _shut up_ ,” Karkat growls, and shoves you in the back of a cruiser, slamming the door against your thrashing limbs. He gets in the driver’s seat and speeds away, nearly running several people over and honking loudly as he turns on his lights.

 

You drive for a long time, but never get to the station. You wonder, as you start to calm down, where he’s taking you.

 

“You’re a real grade-A idiot, you know that?” he says finally. “A real piece of work. Your stupidity can be seen from space. A race of little-known aliens has erected a monument on their dusty home planet in homage to the beacon of stupid radiating into their atmosphere.”

 

“Is there a point somewhere in all that?” you ask dully.

 

“Is there a— _yes_ , there’s a point!” he hisses, glaring at you through the mirror and the grate. “The point is that you’re the biggest sack of dribbling pan-dead idiocy I know, and that’s _including_ your brother! If you were a pie, the flavor would be strongly reminiscent of retardation and sour blueberries!”

 

“You’re being boring,” you deadpan. “Am I arrested or not?”

 

He swears and pulls into a parking space. You realize you’re at your apartment. Huh.

 

“You had to go and do that, didn’t you?” he seethes. “Not only have you painted a huge target on your own forehead, but on mine and Gamzee’s, too! Did you even _think_ before you opened your protein chute?”

 

“I did what I needed to do,” you say, and he swivels around to look at you.

 

“That was planned,” he says slowly. “You actually— _planned_ that.”

 

You stare back, and he swears, running his hand through his hair.

 

“Jane, she’s going to get back at you for that,” he says in a low voice. “It’s not going to be pretty, either. Me, I might get away. You are _not_ going to be so lucky. I mean, did you even think about that? About what she’s going to do to Dirk?”

 

“Dirk’s going to be fine,” you say firmly. “Once that report hits the fan, he’s going to hopefully get him and Cronus somewhere safe. John’s out of town already and he knows what to look for to keep him and Vriska safe. Jake and Roxy are off the map. You and Gamzee, I trust, can take care of yourselves.”

 

He looks at you, eyes blazing, mouth a hard line.

 

“What’s going on?”

 

You look back. “I’m doing what you couldn’t do.” At his flinch you soften your voice. “I’m not blaming you, Karkat. You did what you needed to do to keep yourself safe. I’m just cleaning up the mess.”

 

“Who’s gonna keep you safe, Jane?” he asks, voice dry and raspy.

 

“Me.” You open the door. “Go home. Check on Gamzee. Don’t worry about me anymore.”

 

He lets you go, and you walk up the stairs and to your apartment to await the aftermath.

 

==>

 

“ _—former heiress Jane Crocker openly accused Betty Crocker owner and CEO of murder at the press conference honoring Ms. Peixes’ contributions to the city today_ ,” the news says, and you and Calliope sit side-by-side on the couch and watch you get pulled away screaming while Meenah smiles like a shark. “ _Ms. Peixes told reporters that she is not pressing charges._ ”

“ _I just want to help her_ ,” Meenah tells the camera earnestly. “ _She’s obviously very confused and hurt, poor dear; I question whether or not the police department can trust any of her judgments from hereon out, or even many of them from before. If Jane doesn’t want my help, she won’t get it, but I do want her to know that I am always thinking of her_.”

 

She grins that too-wide smile at the camera, and your gut stirs.

 

“ _And I will be in touch if she wants._ ”

 

“Well, now that she knows,” you say, feeling diplomatic, “we can expect the backlash any day now.”

 

Calliope is silent, chewing on her claws.

 

As for yourself, you feel charged, like a thundercloud before the storm. You’re almost jittery. It’s enough to drive you back to baking, but you hold off. You have one more conversation to hold, and you’d rather not throw a half-baked cake before the end of it.

 

He gets off work at six; it’s currently seven-thirty. Plenty of time for him to come home and flip on the news or check the blog.

 

And…you hear the screech of what could possibly be the Scion’s tires outside…the bang of the building door…three…two…one….

 

Dirk bursts in like a hurricane and makes a beeline straight for you. His mouth is practically invisible with how tightly he’s drawn it and his movements are jerky, which means he’s in control but losing it fast. Calliope darts to the spare room and closes the door. You sit on the couch and wait.

 

He sits down, jumps up, paces, gesticulates wildly, and sits down again. He hasn’t said a word.

 

You turn off the TV, shift yourself around with your hands in your lap, and you wait some more. He keeps opening his mouth and closing it again. It would be cute if the last time he did this hadn’t been during another huge fight, just before he met Cronus.

 

“What,” he finally says, “is going on?”

 

“Meenah is the Batterwitch,” you say calmly. “She’s responsible for a lot of horrible things and has never been taken down for it. I’m doing what needs to be—”

 

“ _She’s making an idiot of you!_ ” he howls, standing back up. “You had a complete meltdown up there! Now she’s pandering and making you look like a—like a _joke!_ ” He flexes his fingers and won’t stop pacing now. “Jane, why didn’t you just _tell me_ what was going on? Why didn’t you trust me with this?”

 

“You have a life outside of me, Dirk,” you remind him. “You have someone to think about other than me. I’m handling it.”

 

“Oh, yeah, you’re doing _fine_ from where I’m sitting,” he growls. “Y’know they’re going to put all of your cases these past however-many years into review? Karkat’s under suspicion! The blog is blowing up with all kinds of hate mail and confused messages! She’s tearing you down, Jane, right down to the ground!”

 

You look at him, still calm, still level. You’re not sure where this composure is coming from.

 

“It’s unfortunate,” you say carefully, “and it’s a bother, but there’s a bigger picture I have to think about here. Don’t ask me,” you shake your head, “please don’t ask me, Dirk. I know you want to, but you can’t follow me down this time.”

 

He sits down again. “I had Dave, before Cronus,” he says, and his voice is coming in all harsh. “I have a little bro who I care about more than anything. His safety only ever gave me pause a few times in our partnership—that leaves ninety-eight percent of rabbit holes and wild goose chases I followed you down. Now suddenly I have a boyfriend and I can’t—you won’t—”

 

“Yes,” you nod, voice firm. He studies you behind the shades, trembling, breathing still shallow and somewhat pained.

 

“Does John know?”

 

“No.”

 

“Karkat? Jake? Roxy?”

 

You shake your head.

 

“But Callie knows?”

 

Hesitantly, you nod.

 

His jaw works. His fists clench.

 

“Dirk,” you say, and your voice shakes for the first time, because you know what you have to say to make him leave and it’s going to kill you, “I don’t want you to be my partner. Not this time.”

 

He stares at you.

 

“It’s not just my decision, really,” you say, “because you more or less made it when you moved out, didn’t you?”

 

His back is still straight and he hasn’t moved but he looks deflated.

 

“Jane.”

 

“I think it’s time for you to go,” you say, and you stand. He grabs your hand as you pass.

 

“Please,” he says.

 

You pull your arm free and walk to the door, opening it. “Cronus is probably waiting for you. You should go.”

 

He sits for a long time, then stands and walks like a blind man towards the door. He pauses at the threshold, turning slowly and planting his hands on the jamb. He leans in close, and you stay perfectly still, deliberately not leaning in yourself. His nose bumps yours, his glasses press against yours, then foreheads, and the heat of his breath is so very warm on your skin.

 

But when his hand comes up to touch your cheek and his face starts to angle you flinch back.

 

“Bye.”

 

He steps out of the door way just enough for you to slam it shut, and you clutch the doorknob and press your palm flat to the door, shaking, swallowing down tears. When Calliope ventures out, you’re in the kitchen, mixing up a cake and composed as ever.

 

==>

 

The call comes on a dreary afternoon, exactly three days later. You haven’t left the apartment for all the paparazzi and you haven’t watched the news to see how far down the story’s devolved. You have talked to Calliope and hashed out several plans of action, and baked. That’s it.

 

So when the call comes and you’re home alone, you feel prepared.

 

“Hello, Meenah,” you say calmly.

 

“Jane,” she returns, voice pleasant.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?”

 

“Turn on your TV.”

 

You comply. Then you almost drop your phone.

 

The screen is split three ways. In one corner, Dirk, drafting something at a raised table. In the other, Detective Vantas, squirming slightly in an uncomfortable-looking chair and pulling on his collar. On the bottom, Jake and Roxy, laughing on an airplane and jostling each other and occasionally kissing.

 

“I got three gunmen,” Meenah says easily, “four targets, one button. It was cute ‘n all, but yer little attempt to play the game stops here.”

 

You take a deep breath through your nose. “Alright. What do you want me to do?”

 

“Oh, nofin too hard,” she laughs. “You got your gun?”

 

With cold hands you fetch Li’l Seb, dusty from lack of use, from your desk, and return to the living room.

 

“Yes.”

 

“See, one thing’s gotta go down for me to not push this button,” Meenah says, yawning. “You gotta put that barrel in your mouth, and pull the trigger. That’s it.”

 

“You want me to commit suicide?” you frown. “Why?”

 

“Gotta have insurance, baby gill,” she giggles. “This is more like…cleanup.”

 

“Do I get a phone call?” you ask. Your voice is too sardonic.

 

“Ya even get two,” Meenah replies. “Ain’t I the best? One to your buoyfrond. One to the hospital. Gotta make cleanup go fast, after all.”

 

“How will you know I’ve done all this?” you ask. “What’s your assurance?”

 

Three sets of crosshairs pop up on the TV. The one on the bottom is leveled at Roxy’s head.

 

“I got my ways,” she simpers. “Guppy down at the hospital’ll let me know when yer body gets there, if the reporters don’t first. Later, gator. Been fun playin’.”

 

“Of course,” you say. “Well played, Meenah. I’ll see you in hell.”

 

“Tell yer dad hi for me,” she laughs, then hangs up.

 

Well…two calls. You make your first call. It’s easy. Then…

 

“Jane?”

 

“Hi, Dirk,” you say. Your voice is all wrong.

 

“Are you okay?”

 

“Perfectly fine,” you say. “I want to apologize.”

 

“Apolo—?”

 

“I should’ve been more honest with you,” you barrel on. You don’t have much time. “And I’m sorry for shutting you out. It’s only because…because I care so much about you.”

 

“Jane, what’s going on?”

 

You smile. “This is my note, Dirk. People leave those, when they’re about to go somewhere. Do something stupid.”

 

“Jane,” his voice is hard and you watch him bolt through doors and knock people over, the crosshairs following him the whole way, “whatever you’re about to do—”

 

“Cronus is a lucky troll,” you say, “but I was lucky, too. Lucky to be your moirail, lucky to be your friend. So lucky.”

 

“ _Jane!_ ”

 

“When people ask you, later, about who I was,” you say, voice definitely trembling, “tell ‘em the truth. Tell them about the times I ragged on you for taking too long in the shower and the times I tickled you to get what I wanted because I knew it’s your weakness. Tell them about half the cases I solved on pure luck and about all the cold cases. Tell them I was clingy, tell them I was depressed, tell them all about how I drove everyone away, chasing an ambition.”

 

“Jane, please,” he begs, and he’s running down the sidewalk now, “please don’t do whatever you’re about to—jegus, Jane, _don’t_ —”

 

“Pale for you,” you say, and you put the phone down but don’t hang up. Li’l Seb is familiar in your hands.

 

Hello, old friend.

 

==>Jane: Be Dirk

 

Your name is Dirk Strider and when you hear the gunshot on the phone you don’t stop running. You stop feeling. But you don’t stop running.

 

The gaggle of vultures around her apartment is still there, now clamoring for entrance, but they clear a path for you (probably because you have a hospital team hustling behind you). You tear up the stairs, throw open the door, and drop to your knees.

 

She always did love those pretty French doors. You can’t stop staring at the spatter. Even as you’re shifted away and Jane’s loaded up on a stretcher, your eyes stay glued to the ruby-red and grey.

 

People have been known to survive from stuff like this. Not like it was a large-caliber bullet, either. You can see the bullet hole in the window, too, cracked in the corner and looking like a spiderweb.

 

She’ll be fine. She has to be. She’s gotta be.

 

Her TV is on a blue screen. Just a blank blue screen. You stare at it. You can’t seem to look away.

 

You don’t know what you should do. You feel lost.

 

You don’t move until a pair of slick-smooth hands hoist you up.

 

“Come on, Dirk,” Cronus murmurs in your ear. “Hospital.”

 

He drives. You stare at your hands.

 

You don’t hear or process much of anything until Cronus squeezes your arm and you look at the sad-faced doctor standing in front of you. You have a painful flashback to last year when Jane got stabbed, then feel your spirits lift. Is she…?

 

“I’m sorry, son,” the doctor says. “There wasn’t anything we could do.”

 

You snap. You crumble and fall apart. You pull into yourself and keep on howling.

 

But outside, you simply say, “I want to see her.”

 

The doctor winces. “Son—”

 

“I want to see her,” you repeat.

 

“The damage—”

 

“ _I want to see her!_ ” you scream.

 

She is pale and the blood has been soaked away and her eyes are closed. That much you’re grateful for. She looks…off. Something isn’t right. She shouldn’t be so pale and cool. This isn’t right, it isn’t right, it isn’t _right_.

 

You take her hand. She doesn’t squeeze back, grinning at your mothering and assuring you she’s fine. She doesn’t stir and give you a sleepy smile. She doesn’t move. She doesn’t move and her hand is cold.

 

This isn’t Jane. Your Jane is probably back at the apartment, tutting at the mess and wondering how much it’ll cost to fix the door. Your Jane is with Vantas working on another case. Your Jane isn’t here. This isn’t her.

 

“Dirk,” Cronus says gently. “You need to call her brother.”

 

Oh, gog, her brother. John’s going to be—to be—

 

A very hassled, very pale Detective Vantas bursts through the door a second later, and you look at him. He doesn’t look at you, but at the girl in the bed. He mumbles under his breath and yanks on his hair, then turns and punches a wall, right through.

 

Your phone vibrates. You answer it.

 

“Hello, Dirk, old chum!” Jake says cheerfully. “We’re back!”

 

You swallow hard but can’t say anything.

 

“Dirk? Is everything alright?”

 

You hear Roxy asking something. Your tongue feels five times too big.

 

“Jane’s dead.”

 

“Wait—what?”

 

You swallow a few more times. “Jane’s dead.”

 

You drop your head onto the bed and screw everything, screw the universe, screw your Strider pride, you _sob_ , shutting out all voices and ignoring all attempts to touch and assuage you.

 

Only one person in the world could calm you down now.  But she’s gone.


	2. Life with Dirk

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And here we are, the thrilling conclusion to Dirk and Jane: Wherever We Are.
> 
> This has been a surprisingly short journey, as far as fics go, but a long one in terms of storytelling and attention, actually! So much attention. I can't thank you guys enough for everything you've done, from the fanart to the lovely comments to just reading my derpness and following my Tumblr. This one is for y'all. :D (Don't forget, read this before you read Chapter Ten of Karkat Vantas' RomCom Life, because without this, that won't make sense!) Don't forget to check the updated tags!
> 
> ALSO: There is a cover, courtesy of the lovely and talented Splickedylit!: (http://25.media.tumblr.com/9a2f27a3f3e11f57022d785856262dc5/tumblr_mnfvqvn8hj1rz9wo6o2_1280.jpg)

Your name is Dirk Strider and you don’t care anymore.

 

The funeral is closed-casket. John writes the eulogy, but he can’t get through it. He passes it off to Detective Vantas. Karkat reads it with a steady voice, even though his eyes are spilling bright red tears. On one side, Cronus holds your hand and rubs his thumb across your knuckles. On the other, Roxy’s about soaked through your suit jacket from crying. Jake is sitting next to her, his arm around her but not pulling her closer. His jaw is clenched and tight. You hope the shades are doing their job, because your façade is cracking.

 

You’re a pallbearer. So is Jake, Karkat, John, Roxy, and Dave. Roxy is basically holding onto a handle between you and Jake, her lip quivering but her head high. The box feels so heavy. Too heavy. Far too heavy.

 

You lay her in the earth beside the headstone you leaned against while you held her an age ago, and you stand there until everyone leaves but you and John. Cronus is waiting, but you can’t seem to make your feet move. The vulture newspeople’s clamor is still audible, but the hard line of police officers holding them back is a godsend. You hadn’t been able to speak when Karkat told you about it. Not like you can still speak. You feel like your throat’s been missing since the hospital.

 

John’s darker blue eyes are focused on the mound of dirt, silently mouthing the inscription on the headstone. You’re looking at her dad’s. You feel like you should say something to the old man, but you’re too ashamed. John’s hand closes hesitantly over your shoulder. Your eyes flick towards him. He blinks, and his mouth bows, but he doesn’t break. He nods, dry-eyed, and you nod back, and gently he forces your shoulder around and makes you walk back with him.

 

You feel like something made of glass, being passed from hand to hand, from John to Cronus. Your boyfriend, instead of directing you towards the passenger seat, instead leads you to Roxy’s busted-up Honda, where the other two are waiting. You look at him. He kisses your cheek.

 

“You need this,” he says quietly, and kisses you again, this time on the mouth. You barely feel it and respond too late. “I’ll take care of everything at work, alright, chief? You take as much time as you need.”

 

You nod mechanically and slide into the seat.

 

You go to her apartment, which you haven’t been able to enter since you found her, but with Roxy’s arm looped in yours and Jake’s around your waist, you feel a little stronger. John’s already been in and cleaned out all her stuff, but the card table is still in the corner and her best friend Mr. Rum Bottle is sitting on top of it, along with the last batch of her cupcakes. You feel like you’re swallowing sand as you drop into a chair.

 

Roxy imbibes with you this time, though Jake is keeping a close eye on her. After the first few swallows you feel your tongue loosen up. After about an hour, you’re chuckling while Roxy recounts a story from middle school you haven’t heard before while Jake giggles and slaps the table.

 

It hurts to be back here. The broken pane in the door has cardboard taped over it. The rooms are too big and echo. But you endeavor to ignore that in favor of snorting cupcake up your nose as Jake pulls a face. These cupcakes are dense, rich. They didn’t come from a mix. Which makes you wonder what was on her mind to make her start from scratch. What was on her mind before she…. You drain the rest of the rum bottle and aren’t surprised when Roxy replaces it with vodka.

 

Your perception is hazy and you can’t really move your limbs without feeling like you’re swimming through pudding. Everything is hilarious. Jake’s scruff is funny. Roxy missing her mouth with the glass and splashing it over her shoulder is funny. You’re funny, in your button-up shirt and shades, funny, funny, funny. There’s an air mattress you don’t remember blowing up in the middle of the living room, onto which Roxy takes a running leap and bellyflops, only to be nearly bounced off by Jake joining her. You watch them for a moment, grinning, then yelp as Jake gets up, grabs you under your arms, and muscles you between them.

 

Once on the air mattress, which is cramped and hot, you look up at the ceiling. There’s a few spots of peeled-off paint where she’d hung streamers for a surprise party or something a few months ago. Your head flops to the side. That square of cardboard glares at you. Roxy suddenly forces your shirt up and blows a raspberry against your skin. You laugh. You laugh so much that before you know it your face is shoved in the crook of Jake’s neck and you’re sobbing so hard you’re not making any sound, Roxy spooning against your back and her mouth pressed to the top of your spine. You are drunk and you are sad and you keep expecting Her to crawl in with you and tickle your side until you accidentally kick her and you have to apologize.

 

Figures that even when you can’t string two words together you still can’t escape yourself.

 

Jake and Roxy hold you tight and altogether you cry and keep white-knuckle grips on each other.

 

==>

 

You flatten Roxy as you roll off and hustle to the bathroom. It’d be bad form to puke on an apartment you don’t live in anymore.

 

After rinsing out your mouth, you peek in on Jake and Roxy. Sound asleep and already rolling to fill the space you left. You quirk a grin. You guess you never really worried about them. Your head is killing you, but you fill your deranged need to walk the floors again. Your old room is dusty, and you don’t know what you expected. Maybe a sign she missed you. You squash down that thought and keep walking.

 

Jane’s room is a lot harder to walk into. It still smells like her. You trace the pinholes in the walls, walk every inch, replay every conversation you can remember.

 

Jake and Roxy do eventually wake up, and when they find you you’re curled on the slightly fluffier square of carpet where a bed used to be.

 

==>

 

The first few weeks are hell.

 

You make a short and sweet blog post and sign out so you don’t have to look at the comments. You log out of the email. You avoid the news. You go to work, you come home, you give your boyfriend brief one-word answers to his questions, you sleep. Repeat. When Cronus slides his hands under your clothes, you respond, but it’s mechanical and you can feel him getting frustrated every time you roll over as soon as he’s done. That just makes you hate yourself more, because you want to be able to give him what he wants. He deserves more than what you’re giving him.

 

It’s been two months when you surprise Cronus by taking him out to dinner to that seafood place he loves. You make an effort, you really do. He’s delighted and hopeful, and it occurs to you later as he nuzzles your neck that he was worried, not impatient. You latch onto that, because it makes you feel a little better.

 

You haven’t even thought her name since The Day. And that’s all you can call the situation as a whole: it’s all The Day.

 

No. You’re not going to think about that right now. You have a lap full of smoking hot troll and you’re going to enjoy him.

 

Later, buzzing with afterglow and tracing your fingers over Cronus’ weirdly smooth skin while spooning, he rolls over and props his head up on his arm, grinning.

 

“I missed you.”

 

You smile back. It feels genuine, you think. Maybe.

 

==>

 

Your designs are good as ever. You’re learning to immerse yourself in them, pay attention to details that you were okay with leaving off a few months ago, and you build the prototypes yourself. Altville will have functional robotic butlers yet. Of course, that means you’re not spending quite as much time out in the real world as you should be. So when Cronus comes to bring you coffee and biffs you in the head with a newspaper that reads “ _Officer Who Worked With Late Detective Quits_ ”, you’re gobsmacked.

 

You tear into the story and scan it before checking your phone. It’s barely nine. You grit your teeth.

 

“This looks good,” Cronus says idly, circling your current prototype, which has a whimsical element of “hoofbeast” in its lower body you were just testing for kicks. Alright, maybe you were thinking of the Zahhak trolls, the younger of which works one department over in testing and has been pestering you about it for weeks. The one who hung around the police department back during the Felt mess. You forget his name.

 

But he’s not important. What’ important is that Karkat _quit_ for no apparent reason, and here you thought that job was everything to him. The only statement he released was that it had nothing to do with the Crocker mess and he was leaving of his own volition, a statement confirmed by the Chief of Police. It smells way too fishy to you. Why would he quit?  You can’t just up and leave; Cronus is making that clear in the most passive-aggressive way possible by asking you questions about your prototype and making comments now and then about your coffee going cold. You scrunch the newspaper up and set your mouth in a hard line. You don’t speak, and eventually he stops trying. You’ll make it up to him later. You need to think.

 

By the end of your workday, you’ve more or less exhausted your confusion and hint of anger. It’s not worth bringing it up. You’re not Vantas’ keeper, or even his super close friend. You are—you were—a part-time colleague at most. Occasional drinking buddy. Competitive moirail friend. But not his babysitter, not his parent, not his best friend. His reasons are his own and it’s none of your business.

 

You let it go. For the most part. You think about taking flowers to the cemetery but get a mystery pain in your chest that leaves you immobile for the rest of the evening.

 

==>

 

You blink and six months pass you by. You still don’t feel okay. But you’ve gotten good at going through the motions. Cronus can tell, of course. Cronus is the only one around you long enough to be able to. He doesn’t push you, but neither is he one to offer his shoulder anymore. If you want sympathy, you need to look elsewhere. Unfortunately for you, that elsewhere is the place you’ve been avoiding for a long time. But you go there. Because you need it.

 

It’s chilly. Your jacket feels too thin. But you still go and sit on the withering grass in front of the headstone and lay down a bouquet of daisies that’ve already started to wilt.

 

“Hi,” you say quietly. “I miss you.”

 

You tell her about Karkat, who’s working security at the mall now and getting more sour every time you see him. You tell her about Jake and Roxy, who you strongly suspect are going to be getting married soon (married, what a dirty word). You tell her about Cronus, about your worries, about how much you still care about him but don’t think you can keep up with his needs anymore. That part is painful. It’s the first time you’ve admitted out loud that maybe the relationship isn’t working out. You hate this part, the slow decline, because you are too stupid to break anything off yourself. You cling. You did it with Jake, you did it with the string of businessmen you knew in your early twenties, you did it with—with her. You just didn’t recognize it for what it was until you’d already made the decision to move out and broken your pattern. You regret that. You regret leaving her by herself.

 

You rest your forehead against the headstone and let yourself feel and remember the life before you met Cronus. You’d been feeling the vacillation hard, you both had. Human pale is hard to stay true pale in, hard because you’ve been figuring out that a lot of humans…just aren’t made for quadrants. She wasn’t. Maybe you weren’t either. You learned that too late. You learned it when she was half-asleep and grinning at you from the crook of your arm and you went to kiss her nose but…somehow…misjudged the distance. You learned it when you swiped her lip with your tongue and she didn’t pull away this time. You learned it when she abruptly pushed you back when your fingertips slipped under the back of her shirt, her hands on your shoulders, her eyes so wide and pretty.

 

You grind your skin into the rough stone and bite the inside of your cheek hard. You were a crappy moirail. Now you’re a crappy boyfriend. There’s nothing you don’t suck at, apparently. Nothing at all. You came here to talk to her, but you’re talking to a dead rock and a patch of grass. You can’t talk to her anymore. You can’t.

 

When you stand to go, you go without knowing where you’re gonna end up. You just start walking.

 

==>

 

And where you end up, as it turns out, is your little bro’s apartment. It’s been too long since you’ve seen Dave, it feels like. Way too long.

 

He nods at you as you show yourself in, and sets a carton of apple juice in front of you when you collapse on his couch. A good thing about you and your bro: he doesn’t pry, but he’s still pretty good at guessing what’s on your mind. It works both ways. You know he’s in the middle of working on a set, because he has vinyl from one end of the apartment to the other, and that his girlfriend is out, because her scalemates have been relocated to the bedroom. You watch the familiar collection of horribad ironic movies, then the stack of your brother’s self-directed movies, and basically you’re still up way early in the morning when Terezi comes back, rubbing her eyes and calling loudly for Dave.

 

“Hey, Creamsicle,” she grins, laying a long and invasive lick on your forehead. You’re used to it. “Dave!”

 

Dave pokes his head out of his room. “Yeah?”

 

“Get used to not seeing me,” she says, and her voice has a growly hint of distaste. “They’re dropping a case in my lap that I can’t refuse.”

 

“What kind of case?” Dave asks. You quietly shift up from the couch and roll up the blanket you were hiding under. Terezi tosses her briefcase into a corner and slumps onto the arm of the couch, rubbing her blank red eyes.

 

“The kind where a seemingly respectable community leader has turned up with a rotten track record,” she grins, tilting her head back as Dave kisses her forehead. “Can’t tell you all the gory details. But I thought you should know.”

 

You flick your hand in farewell to your bro as he trails kisses down the side of his girlfriend’s face to her throat, and while he’s distracted, she gives you a grin you’re pleased to see isn’t tainted with pity or something else stupid like that. People are still treating you like you’re made of glass. Well, maybe to a certain extent you are. Your forehead feels a little raw.

 

It’s something like four in the morning, and you think it might be a Saturday or maybe a Friday, but you can’t remember if you have work and you don’t feel like going home. You just follow your legs.

 

Word on the street is that the manager can’t get anyone to move into the old apartment. The glass has been fixed in the door. You can tell from down on the sidewalk where you’re standing and staring. The sky is starting to lighten up.

 

Your head is killing you. When you walk by Harley Industries it’s still not open, so you sit on the steps until the sun comes out and wait to see if anyone is coming to let you in. It looks like it’s going to be a pretty day. Not terribly cold.

 

You blink and focus in on the worried violet eyes hovering in front of your face, then feel the scaly-smooth hands on the sides of your face. His mouth is pressed tight and you can hear him grinding his teeth. He smoothes this thumbs under your shades. His clawtips just graze the delicate skin there. You lean forward and kiss him hard.

 

He kisses you back and you can practically taste the desperation. You’re not sure who has it stronger, you or him, but it doesn’t matter. You’re both just desperate fools wanting different things.

 

For now, you guess that’s enough.

 

==>

 

The day you wake up and realize it’s been a year sends a cold shock down your spine. You feel jittery. So you get up and start making breakfast.

 

Cronus ambles in while you work on the bacon, kisses you, and grabs the coffee cup you had sitting out and waiting. He sits at the table and grins at you as you absently hum some dumb new pop song and start up a batch of waffles.

 

“What’s the occasion, chief?” he asks, voice still growly and bedhead sticking up in unruly tufts, and you just shrug.

 

“Turn the news on, would you?”

 

Cronus blinks, but complies.

 

You listen over the sounds of sizzling bacon and the creaks of the waffle iron. Mild weather ahead, unsurprising for what a lackluster winter it was…disappearance of a prominent stock holder…break-in on a residential street…conviction of a Mr. Jackson Anglo. You frown. Wasn’t that the guy Terezi was on the prosecution for? You turn just a moment too late. You get a flash of black carapace and oddly large, bright eyes, but then he’s replaced by a breaking news banner.

 

“Betty Crocker CEO and community benefactor Meenah Peixes will be releasing a statement today following the one-year anniversary of the suicide of her former heiress and infamous detective, Jane Crocker,” the news anchor drones, and Cronus has to pitch forward to save you from tipping all the bacon onto the floor. “Sources say that Ms. Peixes will be unveiling a new Crocker product as well as making a very important announcement regarding next year’s mayoral election.”

 

You turn the TV off and return to your waffles, which are burning. Cronus keeps making a hesitant sort of bubbling sound in his throat. It’s driving you up a wall.

 

“What?” you finally say, being careful to keep the venom out of your voice. It’s not his fault. He’s right to be curious.

 

“Um…how are you holding up?” he says, and his voice is very meek. You sigh deeply through your nose.

 

“Peachy.”

 

You take the day off because you deserve a day off, Cronus’ pursed lips and impatient glare notwithstanding. Dirk Strider has business to attend to, business you’ve been putting off for a year.

 

You log back into the email and the blog, and go through all the comments you can without going crosseyed. Your eyes dampen. You wish you’d read them before now, because there were moments last year when you needed to hear all of this. There are a few dumb comments, but Internet retribution is swift and merciless. You hover over the New Entry button. You hesitate. Does anyone even read this thing anymore?

 

You decide you need it more than any of them and click.

 

_Hey, guys. Strider here._

_So it’s been a year. One year since the most extraordinary girl I’ve ever known decided to take her life. One year since the end of the world, I used to say._

_Here’s a funny thing, though. The world didn’t end. It kept on turning. I’m still here. My life is nowhere near as glamorous as it was back when I was getting shot at and helping to bring criminals to justice, but it’s not a bad life, either. And coming back and seeing all of your awesome comments? Best thing that could’ve happened today._

_So instead of wallowing in my misery, I’m gonna take this opportunity to fulfill her last request. I’m going to tell you guys the truth._

_The truth is that she was always more of a morning person than anything else. After midnight she turned into a bear. A cute bear, but still a bear. She preferred vanilla cupcakes over chocolate and when we played darts once on a case she got a bull’s-eye without even looking. She was so full of life, my partner. Some days I still expect her to call me up and tell me we’re about to go out on a case._

_She wasn’t crazy. Nothing she did was pointless, especially nothing she did before she pulled the trigger. I don’t know what she was working on and I’m not going to answer questions about it, because it was a case she undertook on her own. But let me make one thing perfectly clear._

_I believe in Jane Crocker._

_I always have._

_I always will._

You post it before you lose your nerve and sign out again.

 

==>

 

Because you are some kind of masochist, you go to the Crocker press release. Or lounge in a café across the street from it, anyway. Surprise, surprise, it’s her old favorite haunt. The waiter remembers you and brings you a raspberry Danish and a cup of tea with a wink. You point your chin in the direction of the milling crowd.

 

“Big to-do going on today,” you say. “What’s up?”

 

“Oh, you know the high and mighty,” the waiter shrugs, a hand on his hip and a distasteful look on his face. “Like to have the common rabble bowing and scraping after ‘em.”

 

“Yeah, but what’s the word on the street?” you ask. “What’re people saying?”

 

“You’ve been out of it for a while, huh?” the waiter laughs. “Crocker Corp’s been working on a set of smartphones, supposed to be top-of-the-line. Some blueprints got leaked a few months back, supposedly with a huge bug or glitch being installed in, but ole Betty covered her hindquarters by claiming the blueprints were a few years old and the problem had been fixed a long time ago.”

 

“What kind of glitch?” you ask, but the waiter just shrugs.

 

“Beats me. Hey, the broadcast is about to start, so if you value your eardrums I’d back off,” he smiles. “Ole Betty likes the sound of her own voice.”

 

You bark a laugh, but don’t move, methodically working through your Danish. It’s a good Danish. She never could get the hang of making them herself, said they never came out quite light and flaky enough.

 

You’re getting distracted.

 

“—to announce that the Crocker Corp PalmHusk is available in stores one week from today,” Meenah Prime is saying, and indeed your head is vibrating with how loud she is. Self-absorbed seahag. “The full features will be unveiled at its official release party, and the tutorial videos posted to the Betty Crocker website immediately following.

 

“But, people of Altville,” she goes on, and your spine automatically straightens, “I have a second announcement, regarding the mayoral elections. As you all know, our own beloved Mayor is stepping down next term, leaving the floor open for a fresh crop of candidates.

 

“It is my honor to announce that I will be throwing my hat into the ring,” Meenah Prime smiles, and your stomach knots up. “I know, it seems a little early, but it’s never too early to make a good head start. So, next year, I hope you all cast your votes and vote for Meenah Condesce Peixes for mayor of Altville!”

 

Behind her a huge sheet unfurls, with her face and her campaign tag stamped across the bottom. You wrinkle your nose. She can’t be serious.

 

“Which means,” she says over the clamor of the crowd, “I will be stepping down as CEO of the Betty Crocker Corporation.”

 

This time she pauses and _smirks_. Something isn’t right about that. It niggles in all the wrong ways. You sip your tea and frown. The camera flashes are probably going to give somebody an epileptic fit if they don’t calm down. They probably aren’t even aware that their frenzy is exactly what she wants. But the Batterwitch is speaking again.

 

“The chain of authority will pass down to the board of directors while my successor is chosen,” she continues. “It was always my intention to reclaim Jane into the family and give the position to her, but after her tragic suicide a year ago—” You involuntarily snap off the handle of the teacup, “—I’ve had to think long and hard about a good candidate for the position. Once the board makes its decision, a public announcement will be made.”

 

Something is not sitting right and you don’t like it. Not like anything Meenah Prime ever says strikes you as savory, but something is particularly…fishy. As if Meenah had _any_ intention of taking her back—the way She used to tell it, Meenah was on a roll of blocking and disinheriting all of her heiresses by the time she got down to her human charges. Meenah Junior is somewhere in Derse City and either playing or owning a casino, you’re not sure which, and Feferi is in town and keeping an extremely low profile. Neither of them have had much exposure to the press, certainly not within the last four or five years, so maybe it wasn’t without the realm of impossibility that Meenah Prime was just covering her tail for her nutjob disposition. You discreetly hide the broken teacup under a napkin, leave a tip for the waiter on the table, and turn to go.

 

You don’t get very far, because you run smack-bang into a woman and knock her down. She’s very slight, her clothes kind of hanging off her in a way that doesn’t look healthy, and has brown eyes that have the slightly bulbous look of colored contacts. You help her up, apologizing all the way, and she looks at her feet and whispers an apology back, hiding in her long blond hair.

 

“No, no, it was my fault,” you correct her, shoving your hands in your pockets. Something about her makes you want to dust her down and check her knees for scrapes. It’s odd. “Wasn’t paying attention.”

 

She glances at you and then back down at her feet. “Okay.”

 

“Uh…are you okay?” you ask, and she jumps as you touch her shoulder.

 

“Yes,” she says, too quickly. “I—I’m fine.”

 

You both stand there awkwardly, you trying to figure out why she’s so familiar, her combing her hair over her shoulder and halfway in her face, and you shake yourself hard.

 

“Well, take care,” you say, but as you go to walk away she catches your arm.

 

“You’re—you’re Dirk Strider, right?” she murmurs. “You used to help that detective.”

 

You swallow hard against the iron hand clenching your insides. “Yeah, that’s me. You follow the blog?”

 

She nods. “I’m—I’m sorry, I just…I wanted to say thanks.”

 

Your brain blips for a minute. “What for?”

 

“For believing in her,” she says, and her voice is very sincere. “I’m sure you were very important to her.”

 

Your throat kind of closes. You’re used to the feeling by now, but it doesn’t make the urge to hug this frail little creature any less insistent. So you do. She stiffens, then relaxes and hugs you back. She’s painfully thin.

 

“Thanks,” you say gruffly, and before it gets any weirder you abscond.

 

You still can’t shake the feeling that you’ve seen her before.

 

==>

 

When Cronus comes home he finds you on your laptop, poring over major news articles from the last year. It’s time you stopped living in your emotional cave and get a feel for what’s going on now. He leans on your shoulders, and you tip your head back and kiss him before returning to your research.

 

“Whatcha doin’?” he asks, resting his chin on your head.

 

“Rehabilitating,” you say.

 

“Cool.” He watches you scroll down a little and pushes off your shoulders. “Hungry?”

 

“Nah,” you shake your head. “Wanna finish this first.”

 

“Okay.” He putters around in the kitchen. “Hey, did you see the Betty Crocker thing?”

 

“Yeah,” you nod. “I went.”

 

“Oh.” He’s silent for a little while, and you finish your current article—the reorganization of the board of directors for Betty Crocker, which took place last October and kicked off most of the old crowd, folks who had apparently contested the disinheriting of most of the heiresses in one form or another. The new crowd is a lot more malleable, it seems.

 

“Feel like ordering pizza. Pizza sound good to you?”

 

You make a noncommittal grunt and wave. Your brain is buzzing a little. Who would Meenah Prime name as her successor? And why would that require a whole new board of directors?

 

Sooner or later the old questions start to resurface in your mind, as well: what was She working on before she died? Why didn’t she tell you? You know a little—that it had to do with exposing Meenah as the Batterwitch—but you don’t know why she went about it in the most obvious and doomed-to-fail way possible, or why she didn’t care about her public disgrace at all.

 

Why did she pull that trigger?

 

The pizza is a welcome distraction, for a little while. Cronus watches some game show on the TV while you finish up your reading. You put the laptop aside and take some time to mentally sift through all the facts, deconstructing the stories and organizing them, but without something in your hands to distract your body your mind keeps getting sidetracked.

 

Cronus’ cool lips press against your jaw, then start trailing down to your neck. You move your head a little, but otherwise let Cronus have his way without your interference. You’re kind of drowning in your thoughts right now. He shifts into your lap, and captures your mouth with his own for a little while.

 

He’s busy working his hands under your shirt when you have a blazing thought. You can’t believe you’re such an idiot.

 

“Callie,” you breathe, and Cronus sits back.

 

“Who’s Callie?” he asks, and his voice is permafrost. You shift Cronus off and adjust your shirt, sliding into your shoes.

 

“Cherub,” you reply. “She was the last one who knew what was going on. I’ve gotta find her.”

 

“Now?” Cronus wheedles. “We were kinda in the middle of somethin’.”

 

“Sorry,” you shrug, and unhook your shades from your jacket pocket and slide them on. “Gotta take care of this.”

 

He stares at you flatly. You lean over the arm of the couch to peck him on the mouth, but he leans back and turns his face so you get his earfin instead. Good enough.

 

Your first stop: Jake and Roxy’s. You haven’t kept up as much contact with your oldest and dearest buddies as you should have, but you’ll make it up to them. You’re feeling very nearly purposeful. It’s exciting.

 

Roxy answers and ushers you inside with many a hug and squeal, and you pat her arm and try to ease up on the stranglehold. Contrary to your prediction six months ago, they are not married. In all actuality they’re not even together anymore, but you can’t figure out why they’re still living together if that’s really the case. Whatever, not your business.

 

“Need to ask you and Jake a favor, Rox,” you say once you’ve been bundled up in one of the many beanbag chairs around the apartment and nibbling on a burned cookie. Jake passes through the living room area in nothing but spandex shorts and a towel around his neck, mopping up sweat from his brow.

 

“I thought I heard your voice, old chum!” he grins. “What can we do for you?”

 

You spare a fond and fleeting glance for his magnificent abs and get to the point. “I need to know where Calliope is.”

 

Jake blinks. “Did you try calling her?”

 

“Six times,” you nod. “I figured Roxy would know best, since they’re still practically best friends.”

 

“Sorry to disappoint, Di-Stri,” Roxy sighs, shrugging. “I haven’t heard from Callie in a while.”

 

“How long’s a while?” you press.

 

“Uh…couple months?” she frowns. “We just chatted for a few minutes on Pesterchum. She’s still on her magical cherub quest or whatever.”

 

“Still?” you muse. “What does that even mean?”

 

“Well, green cherubs are kinda like protectors, right?” Roxy explains. “She’s got a wide territory. Gotta make sure it’s safe.”

 

You rub your chin. Need a shave. “Okay, well, what was she up to when you last talked to her?”

 

“She was tight-lipped about all that,” Roxy shrugs. “Just wanted to make sure everyone was okay.”

 

You knead your forehead with your knuckles. Not what you wanted to hear.

 

“Why? Is everything alright?” Jake asks. You look at them for a long time. They’ve been your friends for a very long time. Been there for you when no one else was. Fought alongside you several times. You’re not sure if letting them in is the right thing to do, when their lives are kinda peaceful now.

 

But you’re suddenly struck by a vision of her alone in her own sea of troubles, and the parallel is enough to loosen up your jaw.

 

You tell them everything you know. It isn’t much, but they listen, and when you’re done Roxy grabs her phone.

 

“I’m gonna get in touch with Callie again,” she says, and her voice is oddly steely. “Maybe try to get a straight answer out of her.”

 

“Good luck with that,” you shrug. You check your phone. It’s ten o’clock. You have work in the morning, and a pissed-off boyfriend to tend to. You weigh your options.

 

“I’ve gotta go,” you sigh, and stand up with some assistance from Jake. “Look, keep this on the DL, alright? At least until we have a better idea of the big picture here. Don’t tell Callie how much we know unless she’s being obtuse.”

 

Roxy purses her mouth, but nods. You give them both hugs and go back to your apartment.

 

Cronus is still there, and very obviously angry. He won’t even look at you when you come in, even though you apologize a few times. You sigh.

 

You’re in the shower when the door opens and closes, and you hear him shuffling around.

 

“Hey,” you say, and he grunts. “You gonna talk to me, or what?”

 

“Depends,” he replies. “Are you?”

 

You sigh. “Nothing to talk about. Just trying to piece things together.”

 

You listen while he brushes his teeth, and shiver a little when he slides the door aside and some cooler air leaks in. His expression is still sour, but there’s an edge of worry in his mouth.

 

“You’re kinda scaring me,” he says frankly. “This past year…it wasn’t great on you, I know, but it wasn’t exactly a picnic for me, either. I know she meant a lot to you, but I’m kind of hoping I do, too.”

 

You look at him for a while, the water running a little chilly before you adjust the knob.

 

“You do,” you say, and your voice is mechanical. “I love you, you know that.”

 

He runs his hand through his hair and down his face. “Not really sure I do, Dirk.” He slides the door shut. “Don’t use up all the hot water.”

 

You hesitate, and it seems like he is, too. Once upon a time, you would’ve pulled him in with you and wasted the hot water together. Now, you’re not even tempted, just vaguely apologetic that you aren’t. You hear him sigh over the spray, and the door opens and shuts again. When you peek out of the door he’s gone.

 

==>

 

Somehow or another, your leads turn up cold, because when Calliope doesn’t want to be found, she makes herself scarce. You figured this already, but weren’t expecting to be quite so thoroughly thwarted. She wasn’t even at the funeral, you muse, when it’s been another month and a half and she hasn’t returned your texts or Roxy’s calls.

 

You’re not giving up, because you have a strong feeling that whatever she and Callie were doing is tied to the Batterwitch running for mayor somehow, but it’s a little difficult to do a proper investigation without—without her. You wish She’d left you something. Anything. Any sort of clue.

 

You’re not a dummy, so you have a pretty good idea that it has something to do with some sort of hostile takeover, but you’re a little preoccupied with the centaurian robot you’ve been tinkering with for too long now. You’ve received several subtle messages and one _strongly_ -worded email about finally finishing this thing, but every time you pick up a wrench you just get…distracted. You feel like there are too many missing pieces and not enough…found pieces. Or something. Your game is way off and this is a problem.

 

You’ve been thinking for a long time and checking your bank statements, and weighing your options carefully. You’ll never have a gig this good again. Harley Industries has been good to you, and tolerant, all things considered. You think, though…you think that dethroning the Batterwitch might take priority.

 

So, you draft a two-week’s notice and send it to HR.

 

You didn’t expect to get an email back barely an hour later, with only a tagline that the Boss wanted to see you.

 

It didn’t mean your manager, either. It came straight from the Top—the secretary for the CEO and owner of the whole company. You frown, but wipe grease off your hands and prepare to meet your employer.

 

You vaguely know her outside of work, too, but it isn’t until you’re sitting down in front of her desk that you realize how strongly she and Jake resemble each other. She’s very young, your bro’s age (and his ex-girlfriend and best friend and so forth and et cetera), and, for lack of a better cliché, bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. She has to heft herself across the huge desk to shake your hand.

 

“Hi, Dirk!” she chirps. “Good to see you! I’m Jade!”

 

You shake her hand, nod, and settle into the chair. It’s very comfortable, you note.

 

“I guess you’re wondering why I called up all the way up, huh?” Jade asks, and you nod again. “Well, I noticed you sent in a two-week notice. What’s that about?”

 

You blink, not that she can tell behind your shades. “Feel like it’s time to move on,” you say. “Got some other stuff to take care of.”

 

“Uh-huh,” she says absently, fiddling with several of the multicolored bands around her fingers. There’s a bright red one she keeps touching, the sole occupant of her left-hand ring finger. Interesting. No, you’re not here to dissect your boss, you’re here to get clearance to quit, or whatever. “Care to elaborate?”

 

You keep your mouth shut. She doesn’t seem to take any notice, though, snapping the red band a couple of times before shaking her hands out and folding them on her desk.

 

“It wouldn’t have anything to do with Jane, would it?” she asks lightly, and your insides clench. “I’m a big fan of your work with Detective Crocker, by the way. Big fan.”

 

There’s something not quite flippant but almost in her tone that grinds you the wrong way. It wasn’t some _story_ , it was your _life_. A life you’re never going to even have the option of going back to. But you continue your silent treatment, face impassive, body language open and neutral. She can’t read you. You’re a blank book. She fixes you with a very unimpressed stare.

 

“Mr. Strider, I’ve known Dave since we were seven and dated him for nine months back in college. Your infamous Strider poker face doesn’t work on me.”

 

Worth a shot. You don’t move, though.

 

“I’m concerned about you,” she says, and so long as she’s continuing being honest with you, you suppose you don’t have anything to really snap about. “I’ve offered you a job here several times in the past eight or nine years, and you only took me up on it…what…little over a year ago? And then Jane died, but you didn’t use up any of your vacation time except to skive off a day here and there—don’t think I didn’t notice—and out of the blue you’re gonna quit?” She leans on her elbows. “Doesn’t really add up to me. Which means something must be happening. Which means you know something.”

 

Jade would have gotten along well with Her, you think, and clam up a little at the thoughts of the two of them in a room together.

 

“Coincidence,” you say. “Just feels like the time to move on to other things.”

 

She studies you. It’s different then when She used to do it. She used to make you feel like you were being X-rayed, but otherwise unbothered. When Jade does it, you feel like you’re being taken apart, piece by piece, and closely examined, like a faulty piece of machinery.

 

“No,” she says, tilting her head, “I don’t think so.”

 

You’re not sure how to respond.

 

“How about this,” she says, walking around her desk and perching on the edge, swinging her feet like a teenager, “I’ll transfer you from developmental to a new department. You get to keep your steady source of income, but you set your own hours, and within those hours you do whatever I need you to do.” She grins. “Deal?”

 

You stare at her. “What department?”

 

“The Jade Harley Personal Pack Mule Department,” she grins, and you frown deeply.

 

“No, thanks.”

 

She hops off her desk. “Alright,” she shrugs, “I guess I can’t force you.” She walks back around to her desk and takes out a business card. “Gimme a call if you change your mind, alright?”

 

You accept the card and stuff it in your pocket.

 

“Well? Don’t you have special plans to be making?” she asks, but just as you’re about to walk out the door she calls you back. “Tell my next appointment to come in, would you?”

 

You sigh, but comply. Her next appointment is a bent old man who looks so dirty you’re surprised you can’t smell him from here, who has his head bent and tucked under an absolutely filthy fisherman’s cap. He also has a large moustache, you notice as he tips his head up, nods, and returns to studying his shoes.

 

“Miss Harley’s ready to see you,” you say, and ignore the “ _Doctor_ Harley!” thrown at you from back in the office.

 

“Thank’ee, sonny,” the old man says in a surprisingly squeaky voice. You watch him walk into the office, then shake your head. Whatever Jade wants with a probably-homeless old man is her business.

 

==>

 

“You _what?_ ”

 

So you’ve told your boyfriend your plan, and he’s livid. You expected this. You were not quite prepared for the extremely violent shade of purple he’s turning, though—if you didn’t know that was his blood color you’d be even more concerned.

 

“So I’m supposed to keep up the rent while you parade around chasin’ fairy tales?” he says savagely, upending a boiling pot of noodles in the sink and just barely making it in the colander. “Great, Dirk, just _awesome_ , thanks for dumpin’ all a that on me.”

 

You watch him stew for a bit, then say, “I’m going to get another job, just not until after I figure out what she was up to.” Even after a year you still can’t bring yourself to think or say her name except for special occasions. Like a blog post. “It shouldn’t take too long, with me not being distracted from—”

 

“From what?” Cronus snaps. “From solid work? From helpin’ to support both a us? From _me?_ ” He stops murdering a loaf of Italian bread and instead turns around and points the knife in your direction. “I thought this is why you agreed to move in with me. I thought you were movin’ on past the whole detectivin’ shindig.” His accent gets stronger the angrier he gets. “For glub’s sake, Dirk, did you even think a me when you did it? Did you?”

 

Truthfully, you hadn’t, exactly; Cronus had been a little footnote you were sort of hoping would take care of itself. Clearly that is not the case. He interprets your blank look correctly and slams the knife down, exiting the kitchen and smacking your hand when you reach for him. He pulls on his coat and his shoes, swearing the whole time, then straightens.

 

“I thought you were done with all a that,” he says. “I thought after Jane killed herself you’d wisen up to the fact that what she was doin’ wasn’t the smartest thing, but you’ve just been pinin’ after her this whole past year, haven’t you? I get missin’ a moirail, I do, but this is past missin’, this is straight-up…” he trails off, staring at you, and suddenly his eyes get very big.

 

“Cronus,” you say, but he shakes his head.

 

“I’m done,” he says raggedly, and it hurts a little, to hear him like that. “I’m so—this? This is over. I can’t.” He slips back out of his shoes and his jacket and collapses into a chair. You’re afraid to move.

 

“I want you out,” he mumbles, and your stomach drops into your shoes.

 

“Cro—”

 

“Please,” he says, and you retract your hand from where you realized you’d stretched it out. “Just. Go, already. Go.”

 

Well…alright, then.

 

You make short work of packing up an overnight bag, and when you make it to the door there’s a curious empty feeling in the whole room.

 

“I’m gonna come back for the rest tomorrow.”

 

“Uh-huh.”

 

“I’m sorry.”

 

“I know.”

 

You throw caution to the wind and walk over to touch his arm.

 

“Really.”

 

He looks up at you, smiles thinly, and pats your hand.

 

“I _know._ ”

 

Well. Not much to say now. You consider dropping a kiss on his forehead, think it might just get you punched, and leave the apartment.

 

==>

 

You crash at Dave’s again, and he informs you in the morning that if you think you’re dumping all your crap here you are sadly mistaken. You just nod. You have an idea of where you’re gonna go.

 

It’s going to be a busy day, but first…

 

“What do you know about Jade Harley?” you ask, and Dave grins.

 

“Why?”

 

“Reasons,” you reply. “Answer the question.”

 

“She’s not available, if that’s what you’re wondering,” Dave says, and you hit him upside the head.

 

“Don’t be gross. She just wants to use me as her ‘personal pack mule’, so I’m wondering what to expect.”

 

“Lots of smiling and incorrigible optimism,” Dave replies. “Also, never tell her you’re not going to do something, because she has magic puppy dog eyes and is not above using them. She usually gets her way anyway.”

 

You’re starting to understand that, yeah.

 

“Oh, one more thing,” Dave says. “She’s got some really funky powers. Like, teleporting and making things disappear. Also she rearranged the molecules in her body once for Halloween and almost made herself permanently part-dog.”

 

You blink. “What.”

 

“I know, it’s weird, but that’s Jade,” he shrugs. “You’ll get a better idea when she does it in front of you for the first time.”

 

Well…you’ve dealt with teleporting before, so you guess it’s not that big a deal. So long as she doesn’t rearrange your face, you’re cool.

 

“Thanks, li’l man.”

 

“Any time, Bro.”

 

==>

 

The apartment manager almost sobs when you walk in the door.

 

“Take it back,” he weeps, “I’ll cut your rent down to a quarter of what it was, just _take it back!_ ”

 

You’re not one to give up generously cheap apartments. The whole place is blissfully familiar and you go back to her old room, just to see if anything’s changed. It all smells like paint and new carpet, but as you go back and touch the one pane of glass in the door back in the living room, something lifts itself a little.

 

You’re home again.

 

==>

 

“Yo. Vantas.”

 

Karkat seems a lot older than the last time you saw him, and his grimace seems permanent. He glares at you.

 

“What. I’m working.”

 

“I’m looking for someone to share in an adventure,” you say mystically. He looks at you flatly.

 

“What are you going on about now?”

 

“Let me get you lunch and I’ll tell you all about it.”

 

He stares at you, then nods. You go get some of that cheap mall Chinese and tuck yourselves into a booth to talk.

 

You tell him about your suspicions and your intentions, and then lower the boom. “I know you’re busy with your moirail and your glorious job as a mall cop, but I was kind of hoping to get some of the old gang back together. Y’know. See if we can’t finish up what—what she started.”

 

He slurps on his ICEE.

 

“One moment.”

 

You watch as he walks up to the fattest carapace you’ve ever seen, unclips his badge from his belt, and throws it at him. Then you watch in increasing merriment as he unhooks his belt, strips out of the heavy polyester uniform until he’s in his boxers and his undershirt, and leaves with a final double-bird swearing combo as sweet, sweet farewell. Then he starts running like crazy.

 

“Let’s get out of here _now_ , Strider!” he yells as the carapace starts to lumber after him, reaching for his walkie-talkie. “I’m facing possible criminal charges here!”

 

You grab his ICEE and follow.

 

==>

 

As Karkat tells you between maniacal laughter and whooping, Gamzee has a new matesprit who’s been sharing hivespace with them and helping make the utility payments, and though their moirallegiance is sound (as he’s keen to tell you in no uncertain terms, as if you’d come onto him—he should give you some credit, you hadn’t even thought about it yet), he’s been slowly dying in his luxurious mall security job. So, he’s good to tear the streets up with you for a while, because, well, he’s missed it. You could tell that just by looking at him—since quitting with such stylish aplomb, which you think you’re going to immortalize in rap later, he looks like a looser, freer troll. It looks good on him, after a year of him being wound so tight you were afraid for a while he was going to have a legitimate psychotic meltdown.

 

He makes you stop at his hive first, to tell Gamzee and Tavros the news, and you wait in the car. You and Gamzee aren’t on the best of terms. Not bad, just…not the best. Though you still remember his help in rescuing you from the Midnight Crew. Grateful about that, you guess.

 

When Karkat comes out he’s back in actual clothes, half-strangling himself in his tie and with an inordinately tall skinny troll draped on his shoulders.

 

“Aw bro,” Gamzee croons, “that’s the best news, bro—”

 

“I know, you won’t stop telling me how great an idea it is, bulgeleak,” Karkat gripes, patting Gamzee’s cheek affectionately. Another troll surfaces in the doorway, and _whoa_ , that’s some rack. Seriously, they’re like goalposts attached to his head. Which means the rest of him is pretty bulky. His eyes are big and soft, the picture definition of doe-eyes, and you think that’s probably Tavros. He notices you looking at him, or in his direction, and gives a little smile and wave. He has an indigo blur at his side in an instant, and the look Gamzee is giving you is distinctly unfriendly. You slowly tilt your shades down and wink slowly at both of them, making sure your eyes are on Gamzee first. Tavros laughs. Gamzee’s hands clench and unclench for a bit, but he gives an uncertain sort of smile when Tavros pats his shoulder and kisses his cheek.

 

Karkat hops back into your Scion and slams the door.

 

“All good,” he says, looking more cheerful than you’ve ever seen him. Except for that one time when he and Gamzee got back together, but that’s one bright moment in a zillion of grump-face and anger. “What do we do first?”

 

You sigh deeply. “First, I…need to see a girl about a dog.”

 

==>

 

You are treated to the beautiful sight of a shy Karkat Vantas when you go to visit Jade.

 

“Mr. Strider!” she says cheerfully, then freezes and skips a beat when Karkat shuffles in. “Karkat.”

 

“You know each other?” you ask.

 

“Yeah,” Karkat says gruffly. Jade’s toying with the red band again.

 

Alright…unexpected, but whatever.

 

“Doctor Harley,” you say, with utmost gravitas and grace, “I accept your proposition.”

 

Karkat’s eyes narrow and a low growl sputters in his throat before he catches himself. Jade’s eyes flick at him for a long moment, then return to you. She smiles.

 

“Excellent,” she chirps. “I expect to see you later on to discuss your hours.” She lowers her voice a little. “I plan on working you very, _very_ hard, Mr. Strider.”

 

Her eyebrows waggle exaggeratedly and you almost blow something in your ribcage from holding in all your laughter, because Karkat Vantas is funniest when flustered and right now he’s brightest vermillion and weaving the most elegant spread of profanity you’ve ever heard. It’s quite beautiful. Tear-jerking. Holy crap, you’re actually crying with trying not to laugh. Jade is just smiling innocently, her chin in her hands, before reaching over and smacking her palm against his temple.

 

“Shut up,” she says sweetly, “and stop worrying.”

 

You’re pretty sure you have never seen Vantas close his mouth so quickly. You know the sweet scent of romantic tension when you feel it; Jade still has her hand in his hair and they haven’t stopped staring at each other. Jade breaks it first, sitting back in her chair.

 

“Bright and early tomorrow morning, Dirk,” Jade reminds you. “Unless there was something else you needed?”

 

“Nope,” you shrug. “Thanks for your generosity, Jade.”

 

“Always happy to help a friend,” she winks. You both exit, and you refrain from giving Vantas an earful about that astonishing display of feelings.

 

“One last errand,” you say.

 

==>

 

Cronus isn’t there, which you’re grateful for. Between you and Karkat, you get all your stuff except for the heavy tools loaded up in the Scion, make one trip, and come back for the rest, in a little over two hours. He doesn’t say anything when you scrawl a _sorry_ and a heart on a Post-it and stick it to the mirror, which you suppose is your repayment for not teasing him about Jade.

 

You just shove all your stuff in the door and make a note to call John about getting the couch back, flopping onto your mattress, which is lying in the middle of the floor.

 

Karkat stands over you, his hands in his pockets.

 

“What now?”

 

“Now we wait a little while,” you say, “for Roxy and Jake to call.” You’d sent them each a text earlier to let you know when they were free. Karkat chews on his lip.

 

“Oh my gog, what did I just do,” he groans, sitting down by your feet. “I just—I just quit my _job_ —”

 

“From what I’ve heard, that’s not a new thing with you,” you say. “Which reminds me—what gives?”

 

He blinks.

 

“I thought you loved being a cop, dude,” you say. “Then you just quit? What happened?”

 

“If I haven’t even told my moirail why, Strider, what makes you think I’d tell you?” he says, and his voice is hard. “I have my reasons. They’re good reasons. That’s all you need to know.”

 

You let it go. There are ways of making a troll talk. But later. You’re waiting on a phone call.

 

It doesn’t come until after you and Karkat get bored and go grab McDonald’s, and then you have to drive around and grab some for Jake and Roxy, because showing up without Mickey D’s to share is just rude. It’s like being a devoted and excellent cop for a good long time and then suddenly quitting for no reason. But you digress.

 

“Strider, old chum, you are a godsend,” Jake says fervently when you hand him an Oreo McFlurry and a Big Mac. “I could kiss you.”

 

“Not unless I get a turn after,” Roxy winks, accepting the chocolate shake and stack of McChickens you hand her. “Thanks for the goods, Dirky.”

 

“My pleasure,” you shrug. The four of you eat in relative silence. It’s weird, having a fourth party with Jake and Roxy that isn’t…your usual choice. But it doesn’t hurt so much as ache a little when you think about it too hard. You brood over your McNuggets and avoid yourself as best you can.

 

Tonight’s objective is about making a physical map of everything you know and can guess, with the idea that maybe you’ll uncover the entirety of the Batterwitch’s plan and think of a way to stop her. It’s going to be a lot of drudgery. But you have a cop present who can probably give you the inside scoop on a lot of things. Cases that wouldn’t have been important enough to make the news, details not exactly privy to the general public. That sort of thing.

 

You set up a system, as well as a tri-fold foam board and a basket of yarn and newspaper clippings: Roxy scours the Internet using a bunch of her own customized search engines and “l337 hacking skillz”. She reports her findings to you and Jake, who pin up the appropriate article or tagline. Karkat oversees and corrects mistakes in labeling and offers his own special insight into the project.

 

After a few hours of this, you’re frustrated and satisfied at the same time.

 

“So as far as we can tell,” Roxy says, looking over your handiwork, “starting as far back as high school, Meenah Prime has been cutting off her heiresses or shunning them, probably ‘cuz of a freaky troll dominance thing.”

 

“When she cut off Jane,” Jake continues, “the Betty Crocker board of directors made a stink about it and she slowly replaced that entire board with an unsavory or incompetent cast of characters, including the recently-convicted Mr. Jackson Anglo.”

 

“For the past year or so, a lot of board members have been either going missing or quitting, but the Batterwitch has been keeping it all hush-hush,” Roxy nods. “And now there’s probably only four or five guys in that room, all of which are pretty square under her thumb.”

 

“She’s going to be running for mayor in a few months, which means that she’s going to be stepping down from control of Crocker Corp, theoretically,” you add. “From what we know, she’s probably going to put a dummy on the throne and keep on running her company from the shadows.”

 

“But the likelihood of proving it is about as slim as finding concrete evidence that she’s also the Batterwitch,” Karkat grumps. “She’s been running the crime scene as an urban legend for decades, much longer than any of us have been alive. She’s careful. She’s neat. Not even Jane Crocker could find anything solid, even though she knew about it.”

 

You tighten up your jaw but don’t answer.

 

“This is dumb,” Roxy declares. “She’s obviously just too good. How do we fight something like that? At least with Caliborn he was dumb enough to rampage around and do his own dirty work! How do we stop a chick who practically invented evil?”

 

“I wouldn’t go that far,” you say firmly. “Look at the patterns here, guys. The board of directors has been shrinking, but even Meenah Prime is subject to the law to keep up appearances, if nothing else. She’s gonna have to replace them, which takes time and effort to brainwash a new set.”

 

“Yeah? So?” Karkat shrugs. “She’s probably got fifty billion brine-sucking underlings at the ready.”

 

“Not necessarily,” you shake your head. “She’s also gonna be Mayor, if things go according to her plan, right? Well, even evil pink seawitches need sleep. How’s she gonna run a company and run a city at the same time? The answer is that she isn’t, not all the time. I think whoever she picks to replace her is going to be some empty-headed puppet, but she probably needed the directors she had to keep her puppet in line. Mr. Anglo wasn’t a dumb guy, not by a long shot. It stands to reason that whoever’s picking off her directors isn’t someone friendly to her.”

 

“What, you think Callie’s doing that?” Roxy asks.

 

“Why not? It’d be shrinking Meenah Prime’s power, even if it’s just annoying to her in the long run,” you say. “Look, she—she did her best when she was alive to figure out how to get back at the Batterwitch for all the stuff she did, but unfortunately she did it in a way that kind of…wrecked her credibility. But still, she got people talking, got people thinking. Meenah Prime is still really strong, but she’s not invincible, and I think Calliope is chipping away at her throne a little at a time.”

 

“So, a good strong shove…” Jake trails off, and you nod.

 

“Guys,” Roxy says sharply, “check this out.”

 

You all crowd around her laptop and read the latest headline she has pulled up.

 

“ _Former heiress Feferi Peixes to oppose Betty Crocker in Altville Mayoral Election._ ”

 

“Are you kidding me,” Karkat says. “No, really, I wanna know if one of you turds is pulling my leg here.”

 

“Well, that’s…new,” you frown.

 

“Blimey,” Jake nods.

 

“Interesting,” Roxy says, though she doesn’t offer any more commentary.

 

“Well, lady and gentlemen,” you say, “I guess we have something else to keep our eyes on.”

 

It’s as close a dismissal as you feel you’re going to make. Your head is starting to hurt.

 

==>

 

Karkat goes to check out the up-and-coming mayoral candidate while you report for duty at _Doctor_ Harley’s office. Apparently he’s known Feferi Peixes and her two quadrantmates since they were all in kindergarten, so he’s most cut-out for that job. Jade is half-asleep when you knock on her office door, and simply holds out her empty coffee mug.

 

“Splash of milk, seven packets of sugar,” she mumbles, and you figure, hey, boss lady wants coffee, boss lady gets coffee. She looks marginally more awake after she finishes the first mug, but goes and gets the second herself while she sets you on alphabetizing her files. Look like her own private designs for different stuff—a rocket, looks like, and a camp stove, a crazy huge bass guitar that would take at least five hands to play—and they are a total mess. You keep singing the alphabet quietly to yourself while you work. It takes you the better part of two hours to get everything stacked down in files and ship-shape.

 

She doesn’t really talk to you until she’s had about three more cups and a potty break, and after that you can’t get her to shut up. She chatters about everything, and you tune out most of it, which you figure, hey, if she was with Dave then she knows how this goes, but a question jerks you out of your intense war with the alphabet and its grasp in your memory.

 

“Hmm?”

 

“I asked why Karkat’s hanging around you,” she repeats. “I know you guys are friends now, but I’m just curious. Last I checked, he was terrorizing the teenagers at the mall.”

 

“Yeah,” you nod, “kinda put him out of his misery on that end. Need some help around the new apartment.”

 

“Or the old apartment,” she says slyly. You glance at her.

 

“How’d you know?”

 

“Because I have Karkat on speed dial,” she replies. “But he won’t tell me why he’s with you. Are you…like…”

 

“No,” you shake your head, “nothing like that. No offense to McGrumpy Nubs, but he’s not really my type.”

 

“He’s certainly an acquired taste,” she giggles, and you let your eyebrows raise over your shades. She colors a little at your attention, but doesn’t recant or apologize. “It took me a while to really warm up to him.”

 

“For that matter, how do _you_ know him?” you ask. She looks at you, but answers anyway.

 

“I met him when I was sixteen,” she replies. “He nearly arrested me for doing science in a park.”

 

You do some quick figuring. “He’s older than I am, though.”

 

“What? It’s not like we were interested in each other back then,” she shrugs. “He was about to be in a bad, lonely place, and when that happened we started talking more. He was so mean, at the beginning,” she giggles, her cheek resting on her hand, and you have the sudden thought that you’re intruding on something private. “Such a jerk. But once he understood I wasn’t going to take any of his crap he loosened up. I’ve been there for him through a lot of crazy stuff in his life.”

 

It occurs to you how little you actually know about Detective Vantas. “Like what?”

 

“You’ll have to ask him,” she says, and sighs. “Idiot.”

 

She stares dreamily into space and you clear your throat. She shudders back into the waking world.

 

“Sorry. You never answered my question.”

 

You close the filing cabinet. “Did, too.”

 

“Not truthfully.”

 

You have no idea how she does that. It’s almost like having a very old dear friend back, but not quite, because She would have let it go or figured it out by now. Jade isn’t quite as clever or observant (or maybe your bias is showing), but she’s still wicked perceptive. She Xeroxes you from behind her glasses, then tilts her head the other way. “Trash needs taken out.”

 

You spend the next couple of hours basically cleaning her office. That place sparkles like a fresh spring morning when you’re done, and smells twice as nice. You could totally open a maid service, except some people might get the wrong idea when you show up in the getup. You don’t know why the getup is necessary, but you just throw it under the umbrella of Irony and tuck it away to ruminate on when you’re bored.

 

“Looks good, Dirk,” Jade grins. “Thanks!”

 

“Anything else, Doc?”

 

“Yes,” she nods, “hours and wages.”

 

You wait for her to make the first move, since she has all the power here.

 

“Mornings from seven to eleven, twenty-six bucks an hour?”

 

That seems a little much for a pack mule maid or whatever it is you are. “I don’t—”

 

“Too low?” she says, and you shake your head.

 

“Little high, by my estimation.”

 

“Well, you’re taking on rent by yourself, you need money for groceries, and you’re only working four-hour days. I’d say it’s fair.”

 

You throw up your hands. “Sure. Fine.”

 

“Awesome,” she grins, and her eyes flick out to survey the few people outside her office. “Send in my next appointment on your way out, Mr. Strider. Thanks again!”

 

You nod, wave in the next chump (a troll with curly ram horns and a red dress…hey, wasn’t she with the funeral service…?), and start makin’ your way downtown.

 

==>

 

You all meet up at Jake and Roxy’s again (though you’ll have to go home a little early, John is going to be bringing the furniture back in the morning), and Karkat’s good mood seems to be persisting. Good.

 

“I have a job again,” he informs you over takeout. “Eridan, Feferi, and Sollux hired me on as head of security while Feferi runs for mayor.”

 

“That’s good,” Roxy says, spearing one of Jake’s eggrolls. “Keep ya close to the action. How’d you manage to swipe that gig?”

 

“I’ve known Eridan and Sollux since we were barely out of diapers,” Karkat informs her. “It wasn’t like I was gonna leave them in the lurch when they’re in a little bit of trouble. It’s only until after the election, though.”

 

“Still, it’s money,” you shrug. You all eat in relative silence, and as you chew you think of something to investigate, to discuss. A subject comes to mind.

 

“So, what was up with those Crocker phones? Heard they had a huge glitch in ‘em or something.”

 

“That’s what I heard,” Roxy nods. “I had a look at ‘em, but couldn’t really find anything wrong. Maybe the pics I saw had already been shooped and cleaned up by the time I got around to looking at it.”

 

“Wonder if we could manage to get anything more recent,” you muse. “The phones are already on the market, after all.”

 

“Well, if one of you lovely gents can get me one, I can take it apart and see what’s up,” Roxy grins.

 

“I’ll see what I can do,” Karkat nods. You swallow down the last of your noodles and put the box in the trash.

 

“I’m gonna head out. Text me if anything important happens.”

 

You are waved away and make your way downstairs. It’s warm outside, the promise of a good summer on the way. You go back to the cemetery.

 

Someone’s spruced up the gravesites recently, both hers and her dad’s. You suspect Vantas involvement, but whatever. You sit down in front of her headstone and trace her name.

 

You don’t even realize you’re crying until you feel a drop of wet on your hand. You squidge up your nose and rub your eyes hard, but don’t really try to stop yourself. It’s healthier this way. You are absolutely breathless with missing her right now. She’d know what to do and where to go with this whole Mayor Batterwitch business. If you concentrate hard enough and wrap your arms around yourself, you can almost pretend you can feel her with you.

 

A small hand closes on your shoulder and you almost jump out of your skin. When you turn, you’re looking at a troll with petite curly horns and a large pair of sunglasses on, despite the onset of dark.

 

“Are you okay?” she asks, and she has a very unfortunate lisp thing going. Well, no wonder, her mouth looks too small for her fangs. She stands a good three or four feet away from you now, clutching the strap of a bag over her shoulder. You look back at the headstone, finish wiping your eyes, and stand.

 

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just, uh. Visiting an old friend.”

 

“Oh.” She shuffles her feet and twists her strap. “Well, you looked sorta lonely, so I thought I’d come over and see.”

 

You jerk your head.

 

“What about you? What’re you doing in a graveyard by yourself?”

 

“Visiting a few friends,” she says, and shifts her bag. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

 

Awful considerate of a stranger. “Yeah.”

 

She curtsies a little and wanders off. You watch her flit between a few graves, taking small bouquets out of her bag and arranging them in front of the headstones. You watch her, then pat the one you were visiting.

 

There’s a mini bouquet on a grave as you walk out, and out of interest you read the name. You almost choke.

 

 _Jessica Bennet_.

 

You look around and spot a pair of graves side-by-side and read the names there.

 

_Albert Hanson. Neyvah Arkogy Hanson._

 

You look around for the troll, but she’s gone. You stay rooted to the spot. It has to be some kind of coincidence. She was just a fan of the blog, maybe an enthusiast who followed Her career. Yeah. That’s gotta be it.

 

You go home, shaken up, but a hot shower and a good long reasoning with yourself more or less calms your frazzled nerves. She was just a random troll. No reason to get up in arms over it.

 

You dream about Her again and instead of a nightmare it’s a good dream, a replay of a memory of that time you and she went to Skaia City to visit her brother for the weekend. You remember the drive more than the actual visit; she had her hand hanging out the window and was singing along with the radio, the sun playing off her tan skin and lighting up her eyes a pretty crystal blue. You turn to look at the road, grinning, and when you look back she’s the troll from the graveyard, holding a small bouquet. Her shades are off and she has Her eyes, Her face under a layer of grey skin.

 

“Just came to visit an old friend,” she says, and places the bouquet in your hands. You wake up suddenly, breathing hard.

 

It’s a very long time before you drift back off.

 

==>

 

You help Jade put together a new bookshelf for her office, then go see if any progress has been made on the acquiring of a new Crocker phone. It has, and Roxy is at the electronics shop Karkat’s friend Sollux runs, taking it apart with him. You’ve been informed that you will be contacted when it’s done. With nothing better to do, you go to wait for John, who called before you left to inform you he was going to be late.

 

He shows up sometime after noon driving a moving truck, and claps you on the back when you go down to meet him.

 

“Gotta say, I’m glad you’re taking some of this stuff back,” he smiles. “It was taking up a lot of space in my storage unit!”

 

Together you haul the couch, the armchair, and two bedframes up to the apartment. The mattress he handles himself while you’re putting together your old frame, and he sets up her old bed in her old room. You think to yourself that you might just take over her room and let yours become the guest room, because you don’t really want anyone using her stuff. The apartment feels a little less empty with furniture in it. You grin when John brings back the card table.

 

“One day you need to get an actual table,” he says, and you shrug, setting it up in its corner.

 

“Card table worked for us.”

 

“I guess,” John says, then looks around at the apartment with his hands on his hips. “Are you doing okay, Dirk?”

 

“I’m better,” you nod. “You?”

 

“Same,” he grins. “I’m gonna ask Vriska to marry me.”

 

You blink. “Wow. That’s. Uh.”

 

“Not such a big deal,” he laughs. “We’ve officially been together almost five years now. We’ve talked about it some. I know I don’t wanna be with anyone else, so why wait?”

 

You guess his reasoning is sound. You shove your hands in your pockets.

 

“Cool.”

 

“Well, gotta ask first,” he grins. “Wish me luck, okay?”

 

“You got it,” you nod. “Thanks for coming all the way down here.”

 

“No problem,” he says. “Oh, I forgot one more thing in the truck. She wanted you to have it, but I was…well, I was just hanging onto it for selfish reasons. But I guess you should really have it.”

 

He runs down, and when he comes back up he’s carrying—you swallow hard. He’s carrying a filthy old white fedora.

 

“It was our dad’s,” John says, and his fingers curl around the brim. “But I guess I should respect her wishes.”

 

“John, I can’t,” you say. “That was—that’s gotta be yours, man, come on.”

 

“No, I don’t think it is,” he says neutrally, and places it on your couch. “Well, I’ve gotta get back. It was good to see you again!”

 

You accept his hug and wave as he drives off, and then you inspect the hat.

 

It still smells a little bit like her conditioner inside, when you flip it over. Then you notice the note taped to the very top, and frown. It has your name on it.

 

 _Dirk_ , it starts, in her precise handwriting, and you clear your throat carefully.

 

_If you’re reading this, I guess things didn’t go quite according to plan. But I want you to know, you mean so, so much to me. It wasn’t your fault. There are just some things I have to do alone, and I guess this was one of them._

_Take care of yourself, and try to keep yourself safe, okay? Things are happening and I can’t see all the pieces, but if you find yourself in danger, don’t run towards it. Get yourself out. Stay safe. I love you._

_< >_ 

 

Your gut prickles. This…doesn’t quite sound like a suicide note. Her phone call was her note, she said. So where had this come from? Did she leave it in the hat thinking something else was going to happen? But what? What was she…?

 

Your head hurts. You tuck the note back into the hat, re-tape it, and hang it on the corner of her bedframe. You can’t process this right now.

 

It’s very clearly a warning, your brain whispers traitorously. But against what? The Batterwitch? Message received, and sorry, sweetheart, you’re jumping headfirst into that danger. She’s gone. She can’t solve this one or keep you safe anymore.

 

It’s about ten months until the election. That means you have ten months to piece together a plan to stop Meenah Prime and whatever she’s got in store for Altville.

 

You’d best get to work, then.

 

==>

 

In taking apart the Crocker PalmHusk, Roxy and Sollux discovered a funky little wire that they have never seen before. Sollux’s dad or guardian or whatever doesn’t have any idea what it is, either, so they let you take it to Jade to see if she has any idea. It’s been three months since the announcement.

 

She looks at it carefully first, then puts it up to her ear. You watch her examine it with a practiced eye yourself. It looks almost fibrous to you, though it’s small and pink and looks a little bit like a tentacle. You’ve never seen anything like it, but both the Captors can’t look at it for very long without shuddering. They don’t understand why, either, just that it gives them the willies.

 

“Could it be a transmitter of some kind?” you ask, on a whim. She blinks, then grins.

 

“It’s obviously some kind of troll tech, so I wouldn’t be surprised if it was.” She hands the wire back. “Try finding a psychic and see what happens.”

 

Well…you know a troll who might know someone.

 

Karkat takes you, Roxy, Jake, Sollux, Eridan, and Feferi back to his hive. Eridan looks a whole lot like Cronus, only douchier. It makes your chest hurt, and he looks down his nose at you and doesn’t say a word. Feferi looks a whole lot like Meenah Prime, but smaller and bubblier. You like her, you guess, but she makes you suspicious when you just catch a glimpse of her from the corner of your eye.

 

“Alright,” Karkat says, handing the wire in its tiny bottle to his moirail, sitting at the kitchen table, “this is the only time I will ever tell you this, so savor the moment. I want you to use your chucklevoodoos on this thing.”

 

Gamzee looks up at Karkat, surprised. “Bro, I ain’t even sure I can use those no more.”

 

“Sure you can,” Karkat says, sitting down across from him. “You can. You’re bad at a lot of things, but using your gog-given talents is not one of them. This…is one of your more unfortunate gifts.”

 

He chews his lip, looking at Karkat and Tavros and all the other people in the room, really. “I don’t wanna scare nobody.”

 

“So, uh, just focus, really hard,” Tavros says haltingly beside him. “It’s, uh, something I’ve got to do, when I use my Summoning.”

 

Apparently soothed by the faith put in him by his moirail and his matesprit, Gamzee takes out the wire, holds it in his palm, and concentrates.

 

It creeps up your spine, nice and slow, and whispers darkness into your mind. You don’t understand a lot of the words, but you do get an image of Her grinning at you as she puts the gun to her head and—

 

When you come to you’re being helped up by Eridan, and realize your nose is bleeding. You wonder if you’re the only one and are displeased to see your face is the only faucet in the room. But, as your head stops spinning and you mop up your nose, you realize Tavros is cringing and Sollux’s horns are sparking. Karkat’s jaw is set. Even Eridan and Feferi look unsettled. You don’t know where Roxy and Jake are. Gamzee looks miserable, but the little wire in his hand looks…almost bigger. Fatter. If you listen real close you can almost hear the wire whisper.

 

“Oh,” Sollux says.

 

“What just happened?” you say hoarsely. You feel a pair of skinny arms around your neck and jump, but it’s just Roxy, whose pupils are pinpricks. She’s shivering. Jake follows, trembling slightly.

 

“I mighta overdone my harshwhimsies,” Gamzee says apologetically.

 

“You did great,” Karkat grins, walking around the table and grabbing his head in a rough hug. “Tholluckth? Got an idea what this thing is now?”

 

“Tranthmitter, like DK thaid,” he says, and you take a moment to realize he’s talking about you. “Lookth like it tranthmitth pthycic frequenthieth, ethpethially thothe of the highbloodth.”

 

“Meenah doesn’t have a psychic ability, though, does she?” Karkat asks Feferi, who shakes her head.

 

“It’d make sense for her to have a glubbin’ underling, though, wouldn’t it?” Eridan poses. “Some nutjob under her fin to speak her will or whatever.” He sounds like Cronus when he’s angry, though his tone is perfectly calm. Cronus must’ve worked hard to cover up that pretentious bubbly accent. You wonder where he is now and figure it might be bad form to ask.

 

“The Crocker PalmHusk is one of the most popular phones out these days,” Roxy muses. Her voice is a little shaky. “If all the voters have their mitts on these phones, she could be brainwashin’ the whole population and no one would know about it.”

 

“Well, how do we stop it?” Karkat asks.

 

“She’th probably got a thentral command room or thomething,” Sollux says. “She’d need a plathe to broadcatht her whim to all the towerth that power the thingth.”

 

“So we gotta tear down the towers?” Gamzee asks, slowly grinning.

 

“No, you pan-dead ignoramus, weren’t you listening?” Karkat frowns. “We’ve gotta find the center of where she’ll be broadcasting the psychic frequencies and stop it there.”

 

“How do we do that?” you ask.

 

“Leave that to me,” Roxy says, tapping the side of her nose. “I’ve totes got this.”

 

“Need thome help?” Sollux asks, and Roxy shakes her head.

 

“No way, kid, I have so got it covered,” she grins. “Noob like you would just slow me down.”

 

“Noob like me?” Sollux says slowly, a smile spreading on his snaggletoothed face. “Careful there, RX, keep talking down and I might jutht hack your PC and thteal all your important fileth.”

 

“I’d like to see you try, Cherry-berry,” she winks.

 

“Bring it on, bubblegum.”

 

“Not that this isn’t the picture a charmin’,” Eridan interrupts loudly, “but we have a campaign to attend to and an evil Batterwitch to stop. I think we got more important things on our plates.”

 

“Too right, my fishy chap!” Jake says, and wow, you’d forgotten he was here. “But here’s a question I’ve been bouncing around my cranium for a while—what sort of psychic are we dealing with?”

 

“Won’t know until she makes her move,” Roxy shrugs. “I’ll keep an eye on the message boards, but it could be something as subtle as inserting some subliminal messaging into phone conversations and web browsers and stuff. Hate to say it, but we’re gonna have to wait and see on this one.”

 

You hate waiting.

 

==>

 

Six months until the mayoral elections. The phones still aren’t so much as making a peep and you are no closer to an idea of what to than you were six months ago. The air is getting chilly and though you’re keeping a close eye on news concerning Crocker Corp, all news on that front is swept up in preliminary campaigning.

 

The apartment is different, too, without the smells of cinnamon and pumpkin and apples. So, you figure, what the hey, why don’t you try baking yourself?

 

You kept her recipe box, and work from there, her neat handwriting guiding you through a passable apple pie. You call up Dave and at the mention of apples is over so fast you think he might be—yes, there’s Jade, walking in behind him. You salute your boss with a paring knife and get out an extra plate.

 

“Since when did you bake?” Dave asks around a full mouth. You tap his chin shut and pour him a glass of milk.

 

“Since now.”

 

“This is really good!” Jade chirps. Your heart warms a little.

 

“No Terezi?” you ask.

 

“Nah,” Dave shrugs. “She’s working.”

 

“She’s been working a lot,” you muse.

 

“Yeah, well, she is,” Dave retorts, his voice very defensive. You hold up your hands.

 

“Alright.”

 

You sit around and eat pie awkwardly for a few minutes, and then Dave wipes his mouth on his sleeve (what a heathen, you know you raised this kid better).

 

“Something else you wanted, Bro?”

 

You shrug. “I made pie. That was the extent of my thought process.”

 

“Okay.” He hands you his plate, practically licked clean. “Thanks.”

 

“Can I use your bathroom?” Jade asks, and you point at it. As soon as she leaves Dave sighs a little.

 

“What’s up?”

 

“Worried,” he says. “’bout you.”

 

“That’s my line,” you reply. “Nothing to worry about, little man. I’m fine.”

 

“Not doubting it,” he shrugs, “’cuz you’ve definitely been worse. But you’re still not really fine.”

 

You push your shades up your nose a little. “Am too.”

 

“Dirk Strider denies his feelings: the full story at eleven.”

 

“Well, whaddya want me to say?” you snap. “I’m really okay. I just miss her, is all.”

 

“Wanna talk about it?”

 

“First, who are you, and what have you done with Dave Strider,” you say, and he gives you the finger. “Second, nothing to say. She died over a year ago.”

 

“But I get the feeling you still haven’t actually _talked_ about it to anyone,” Dave says, and the toilet flushes. “Look, you don’t have to bare your soul to me. We might both be better off for it. But it might do you some good, talking to another human being about your feels. Y’know?”

 

Somehow you don’t think the times when you reenact scenes from your favorite movies with your smuppets and fall asleep cuddling a light blue one with a moustache counts towards what he’s saying.

 

But it’s been over a year already, what does he want you to say? That you miss her? Yeah, you’ll admit it freely. That it still kills you inside to walk by the door? Yeah, sure, whatever.

 

That you regret everything? That you wish you hadn’t moved out? That you wish you’d gotten to kiss her one more time?

 

Now where did that last one come from?

 

But it’s true.

 

You wrap the pie up in aluminum foil and send it home with Dave after another few minutes of chatting. Jade teleports him home and you walk back around the counter and into her old room, where you’ve more or less taken up residence. Her bed always was the better of the two. For some reason it feels too big, no matter how many inappropriate handicrafts you fill it with.

 

You need to start dating again.

 

You chuckle to yourself and heave your laptop into the space between you and the edge of the mattress. Yeah, right.

 

==>

 

Three months to go.

 

You’ve been going to the cemetery more often, trying to catch a glimpse of that troll that’s been haunting your dreams lately. You haven’t been able to find her, but the graves are still getting little favors, even in the dead of winter. You’ve checked them all. A lot of the names aren’t familiar to you, but the few that are you know by heart. You stood over a lot of their bodies, comforted their families, got chased off by their dogs. It’s bugging you how well taken-care of they are. And the timing…

 

Roxy is hot on the trail of whatever is transmitting to the PalmHusks, and it’s been active; there have been a few complaints of increased fatigue and dizziness in PalmHusk users, though they haven’t made the connection between the phone and the symptoms. And why would they? Phones aren’t supposed to make people sick. But you post on the blog again, this time warning people off the phone and citing “sucky service” and “glitchy apps”, which is true enough because on the side Sollux has been writing a virus and it went live a couple of days ago. Best to keep the real reason on the DL.

 

Karkat had Gamzee took a listen, and judging by the snarling mess he devolved into, it wasn’t anything good. He had to practically carry Gamzee upstairs to his ‘coon and shooshpap him for an hour before you got any straight answers.

 

And the answer? Chucklevoodoos, but not just any kind. Precisely the same brand as Gamzee’s. Makara-grade harshwhimsies.

 

Which means an ancestor is being puppeteered for this expedition.

 

Roxy and Sollux both are working on tracking the signal now, with Eridan supervising because the two of them tend to hateflirt a lot and you can tell it makes fishface jealous. You’ve told him multiple times that that’s just Roxy, but he does not appear comforted. You’d considered telling him to unwind his boxers, but then think that you’d probably do the same thing in his position and shut up.

 

It’s a good way to keep them out of Feferi’s way, though. The Peixes vs Peixes election stirred up a whole lot of political drama, and all the mudslinging that goes with it. Her unconventional relationship has been brought up more than once, and while she has maintained that she is not breaking up with either her matesprit or her moirail (‘rails with pails, you’ve heard it called), their time in the public eye together has been sharply downgraded. Which is a shame, because you love to see the three of them turning heads and making older trolls clutch their pearls.

 

(You also like to study how Eridan and Feferi act around each other independent of Sollux, because it looks…easy. Shooshpap with tongue. Yeah, you’re a bit of a creep, but it does things to your perception of your memories. Like bathe them in the harsh light of regret. So much regret. All the regret. All of it.

 

Maybe not that much. You’re getting back to your old melodramatic self again. But still, seeing a relationship like that makes you wonder what would’ve happened with you and yours, given a little more time…)

 

You delegate telling Jade your findings to Karkat, because every time you look at your boss she’s fiddling with that red band. Her fingers have been devoid of her colorful reminders lately, all but that one. They need to get over themselves and get together, because between Jade’s sighing and Karkat’s brooding that is clearly what they both want but won’t admit.

 

While Feferi campaigns, her boys and her bodyguard (and you and your friends) plan. It’s been decided that you should try an electronic solution first. Try and hack into the signal and disrupt it, somehow. Should be easier than trying to take out a reportedly-massive old indigo-blooded troll. The way Gamzee describes the geezer, he’s absolutely ancient, but underestimating him because of his age would be a one-way ticket to death and destruction. As to why he’s working for Meenah Prime, you have no idea. Maybe he just likes causing chaos and destruction.

 

But should worse come to worst…you’ve elected to be put on the team that attempts to put the old boy down. Or at least out of commission. Rough up the mechanics.

 

You’re kind of hoping Sollux and Roxy fail.

 

==>

 

You’re in Roxy’s apartment, playing a video game with Jake, Eridan, and Gamzee (Karkat is on duty with Feferi at a soup kitchen), when there is a loud crow of success from the tangle of computers, wires, and other beeping devices you don’t know. Roxy is dancing around the kitchen, and Sollux vaults over the couch, yanks Eridan up by the scarf, and snogs him thoroughly. You sidestep the tongue-happy trolls and go for the remote.

 

“What’s up?” you ask Roxy.

 

“We did it!” she crows, and apparently takes a leaf from Sollux’s book, climbs into Jake’s lap (who squawks and demands to know her intentions beforehand, the poor soul), and starts up kissfest there, too. You and Gamzee look at each other.

 

“Hey, don’t look at me, you’re not getting any of this,” you say, indicating your body, and Gamzee frowns, then grins.

 

“Aw, but bro, you’re lookin’ so fine tonight.”

 

“Swoon,” you say, your hand thrown over your brow. “I take it back. Let’s do the tonsil tango, you stack of hot troll, you.”

 

You and Gamzee then proceed to have the best pretend sloppy makeout of all time. It fails because neither you nor the juggalo can keep up a straight face and it gets funnier because the other two couples making it awkward start throwing things at you.

 

When Karkat and Feferi get back a few minutes later, it gets rather hard to tell her the good news when everyone is laughing so hard.

 

“Can none of you keep it in your pants when I’m not around to babysit you grubmunchers?” Karkat complains loudly. “Jegus, you’re worse than teenagers at Prom.”

 

Your sides hurt. Make it stop. You can’t go on.

 

“No can do, KK,” Sollux grins, taking Feferi’s hand and twirling her around. “Me and RX just did a good thing. You are too late. We are the elite haxxorth. It ith uth.”

 

“Yeah, but what did you actually _do_?” Eridan asks, his face still slightly purple and adjusting his scarf and hair.

 

“If all went well, we prolly blew up their whole network,” Roxy giggles, her elbows on Jake’s shoulders and his face pressed awkwardly into her cleavage. Poor sap. Never stood a chance. “Sol wrote a virus with some pretty hefty network-munching potential and let it loose on Crocker Corp’s whole system. Shoulda wiped everything to do with the PalmHusk irreparably, so everyone with one should be experiencing a case of ‘wtf, my phone is a useless brick right now’.”

 

She then shrieks, because Jake has licked her chest. Gross.

 

“Even if the Batterwitch manageth to get her thythtem up and running again, the wireth should be permanently dithconnected,” Sollux says smugly. “That kind of old troll tech ith about a fourth-part biological, tho thith long without tranthmithion should kill the tentacleth for good.”

 

Good news all around. You watch Sollux, Feferi, and Eridan sway gently with interlocking hands and Roxy tuck herself under Jake’s arm and get her hair played with, and Gamzee drape himself over Karkat’s shoulders and rest his chin on top of his head. Yeah. You cough and excuse yourself for the evening.

 

“Only a few more months, and this’ll all be over,” Karkat calls, and you wave. “Let Jade know the good news, would you?”

 

“Not a chance,” you call back. “All on you, bro.”

 

You go home, and work on another recipe. You can see why she wanted to bake all the time; it really is relaxing. Though you still don’t get why your cupcakes keep coming out rubbery.

 

You hear the quiet whisper of a piece of paper gliding across hardwood, and walk around the bar to see what fell.

 

A square piece of computer paper is resting on the floor, with the bold black typed message of “ _good job_.”

 

You frown. What in the world?

 

You flip it over, and there’s just a smiley face, but in a very specific shade of blue.

 

You crush it in your fist and throw it away.

 

==>

 

Two months to go.

 

Betty Crocker Corporation stock has fallen drastically in price thanks to the huge tech debacle, and pulled all phones out of production and issued refunds for over ten thousand devices. There was an investigation conducted, but nothing ever became of it; the most that can be assumed of the downfall of the entire network was that that glitch in the blueprints wasn’t taken care of after all. It’s embarrassing to watch, really. Even the amount of baking products being purchased has gone down, though only slightly.

 

Roxy and Jake are kind of back together, kind of not? They don’t even know what they are anymore, but it involves walking out of the same room adjusting clothes and wiping lipstick again. You envy their easy relationship. They don’t even have to think about it. Or maybe they just avoid thinking about it, you don’t know.

 

There have been a total of two assassination attempts on Feferi’s life that Karkat prevented, because he is a boss and it does not hurt your ego to admit it anymore. The political debate is so hot that you’ve had to pull out of listening to the radio and watching TV until it’s over, because it makes you irrationally angry whenever you hear the Batterwitch’s voice or see her face. You have taken to pulling up her campaign signs from neighborhoods when you see them, though you are smart about it and do it in the middle of the night when you can’t sleep.

 

The graves continue to be visited. You haven’t gotten another note with a smiley face on it, though you did get an anonymous comment on the blog about the best way to fix the cupcakes (okay, so maybe corn starch isn’t the best substitute when you’re short on flour and orange soda is _not_ okay to add in just because. Now you know). All of this is niggling and itching and making you want to punch something in the face.

 

You go into work a little earlier than usual because you didn’t sleep again last night, and hear a familiar set of voices behind Jade’s cracked door. You duck down behind the secretary’s desk.

 

“—splendidly,” Calliope says, and you wonder if it would hurt you more if you hit her or not. “I daresay that come June, all the pieces will be in place for her downfall.”

 

“And Feferi’s prepared?” Jade asks. Your stomach prickles uncomfortably.

 

“Yes. She has quite a lot of faith in Mr. Vantas, as well as our brave little soldier,” Calliope replies. “Ms. Peixes has no problem with attending the final dinner, so long as you’re certain you can handle hosting.”

 

“The old family manor could do with some cleaning,” Jade laughs, “but I’m up for it.” There’s a beat, and then, “How is she?”

 

“Chomping at the bit and raring to go,” Calliope sighs. “Honestly, I keep telling her to be patient, but it seems that since starting all she’s wanted to do is go, go, go.”

 

“Well, without that gung-ho attitude, a lot of things wouldn’t have happened,” Jade muses. “Is she prepared for…after?”

 

“She says she is,” Calliope replies. “I’m more worried about _his_ reaction than about her adjusting, you know.”

 

Your heart hammers in your chest and you feel the beginnings of comprehension that you don’t quite understand yet.

 

“And, of course, Karkat’ll have a heart attack,” Jade laughs.

 

“Are you two on speaking terms again, I assume?” Calliope says with a hint of teasing in her voice.

 

“We’ve always been on speaking terms,” Jade sniffs. “Whether or not we take advantage of those terms remains to be seen.”

 

“He still insists he’s no good, does he?”

 

“Like an angry little Storm Trooper.” Jade _tsks_. “I don’t know why he won’t just _believe me_ already.”

 

“Perhaps he will feel better after Feferi is mayor,” Calliope suggests. There’s a sound of sniffing.

 

“I hope you’re right,” Jade sighs. “Well, Dirk should be coming in any minute now, so I suppose you’d better go.”

 

You shuffle your way down the hall without being seen, then start walking normally. She’s still saying goodbye when you enter the office.

 

“Oh,” you say, laying on the innocence as thickly as you can. “Hey, Callie.”

 

“Hello, Dirk,” Calliope says, though her voice is colored with guilt.

 

“Been trying to get in touch for a long time now,” you say casually. “Your phone broken?”

 

“It is, actually,” Calliope says, and takes out…a Crocker Corp phone. You stare at her, and she winks. “Jolly awful spot of bad luck.”

 

Your brain sort of blanks until she’s almost out the door, then you blurt, “You weren’t at the funeral.”

 

She pauses. “Hmm?”

 

“Her funeral,” you repeat. “You weren’t there.”

 

Calliope turns around and looks at you with very large, sad green eyes.

 

“I am sorry for it,” she says gently. “It was not my intention to worry or offend anyone, but I…felt it best not to attend. Many people fear cherubs, you know. Even green-cheeked ones.”

 

“But it was _her_ funeral,” you protest. “Full of _our_ friends. Who _love_ you.”

 

Callie sighs and fiddles with her claws. “Dirk, I know this is all very confusing, and I would like to tell you my reasons behind everything, but right now it is simply too dangerous.” She reaches out and touches your shoulder. “But, though it’s late…I’m so, so sorry for your loss, Mr. Strider.”

 

Her voice is very sweet and calm. You want to believe her and trust her. You do. But you shrug off her hand.

 

“Almost two years,” you say, and look between her and Jade, who is also looking at you very calmly. “Doctor Harley, I quit. For good. Calliope, I hope whatever secrets you’re keeping are worth it.”

 

And you storm out of there and wonder if this is what it feels like to have meddlesome mentors who screw everything up in the name of the greater good when there could’ve been an easier way.

 

It sure feels like it.

 

==>

 

One month.

 

Jade keeps sending you checks, probably in hopes you’ll come back. Nope. She lost your pack mule privileges the second she decided to be in cahoots with an interfering secretive cherub. Do you feel guilty accepting her money? Yes. But do you still need to eat? Yup.

 

Feferi is pulling ahead in the popularity polls, although it’s by a slim margin. The Batterwitch has managed to overcome the PalmHusk debacle by fully reimbursing all of the people who bought one, not just the companies, and doing a large-scale bake sale for charity. Cheater. But the polls will open in a few weeks, so it’s getting down to the wire.

 

You spend a lot of your time these days poring over the note in the fedora, the conversation you overheard between Jade and Calliope, the troll in the cemetery, and the blue smiley face. You have one crazy, impossible idea in mind that you can’t even vocalize, and one cruel and more likely theory: someone is yanking your chain around hard. You never would have pegged Jade or Callie as the type to play a cruel joke on you, but that’s the only logical explanation. She wouldn’t leave her brother alone. She wouldn’t leave her work. She wouldn’t…she wouldn’t leave _you_. You were just going through a rough patch. Ish.

 

It’s driving you crazy.

 

So when you get an invitation in the mail to the Mayoral Reception on the night of the election, where both parties will be celebrating the city at the Harley Manor, you almost chuck it on the spot. The fuchsia writing on the back catches your eye.

 

_I reely )(ope you can make it! T)(anks for all your kelp! –F—EF—ERI_

 

Hmmph.

 

You tape it to your bathroom mirror and hope it gets all wrinkly from the steam.

 

You then get a text from Vantas.

 

_TURN ON THE NEWS NOW._

 

Well…alright, if he’s gonna whip out the all-caps. You ignore the fact that he uses all-caps all the time.

 

Huh.

 

“—CEO of the Ampora Company, lately absorbed by the Betty Crocker Corporation in a peaceful merger, has been named Ms. Meenah Peixes’ successor,” the reporter drones, and you see a picture of—okay, wow, Cronus did not mention that his hatchmate was such a fox. No. Can’t think that way, because he is the enemy. He looks a little…wilted, in that picture they’re using. It might be the fins. Or the double scars on his face. You frown. “In the event of Ms. Peixes losing the election, he will be downsized back into the board of directors.”

 

He wasn’t on the original list. And you _have_ been avoiding all media and trusting your friends to tell you the important things, so you guess you shouldn’t be surprised to hear that Meenah Prime has eaten another company.

 

(Though if that didn’t count as important you don’t know what is. Honestly, can you not trust any of your friends anymore? Apparently not.)

 

Another note slips under your door.

 

_1134 Westgate Bridge. Ask for the James Egbert style._

 

And another blue smiley face.

 

You whip the door open. No one there. You take a deep breath. No ozone. You hustle to the balcony. No one familiar or trying to look conspicuous. No curly little horns, no big green skull, no dog-eared hoodie.

 

You put the note with the invitation.

 

==>

 

Three weeks.

 

Another check, this time with an apology note.

 

Another blue smiley face.

 

You drive to the city dump, grab a crowbar, and start smashing every car and small appliance you can find.

 

It’s after dark before you finish, sweat and tears pouring off of you and your body spent, but your anger simmering.

 

==>

 

Two weeks.

 

The grave sites haven’t been visited in a while.

 

Meenah Prime is pulling ahead in the popularity polls.

 

Another attempt on Feferi’s life, thwarted.

 

Your phone has been switched off and the only way people can get in contact with you is to come see you. So far, Karkat and Jake are the only ones who’ve tried, with dubious results.

 

You stare at the blue smiley faces and wonder if it’s the lateness of the hour or the gin, but a corner of your bruised and bloodied heart begins to hope.

 

==>

 

The address is a men’s wear store, and the James Egbert special is a suit. It’s one week until the reception. You will be polite and go, because you have a hunch, and if your hunch is correct…well, you’re not going to entertain it too much in case it isn’t true, because if it isn’t true it’ll be like losing Her all over again.

 

The squat black carapace doing your pinning (not that it needs much, just a little taken out from the waist) is apparently quite excited about the prospect of a James Egbert. In his words, the man was an inspiration to dapper dans everywhere, so much so that this particular cut of suit was inspired by and designed especially for him. You don’t see what’s so special about it, other than the fact that her and John’s dad was an example to sharp-dressed men everywhere. And. You know. It was her dad.

 

The carapace stops you when you go to shell out for the suit.

 

“It’s already been paid for!” he says cheerily. “Mr. Dirk Strider, a James Egbert cut, ordered and paid for by an anonymous benefactor! Oh, and this comes with it!”

 

He bustles to the back, then comes back with a small box. You take it, nod at the carapace, promise to be back to pick it up in a couple of days, and leave.

 

Inside the box, as you see when you get back to the apartment, is a light blue boutonniere made of paper, and a note.

 

_Dirk,_

_I know this is probably really hard for you, but it would mean a lot if you would wear this to the Reception; I can’t say why yet, but showing your support for Jane Crocker is of utmost importance that night. I know you’re angry with me, but you’re going to have to trust that what we did and what we kept was for the best, for everyone._

_Hoping to see you there,_

_Jade Harley_

 

Huh.

 

You hold the paper flower up to the light and don’t see anything like a hidden message or a code inside. You contemplate crushing it like you have everything else, because you are so… _tired_. You can’t go through this again. Not again.

 

You pick up the suit, you pin on the flower, and you wait.

 

==>

 

It’s a swanky ordeal, this Mayoral Reception. Tensions are obviously high, and the whole party is split into two camps: the Meenah Peixes camp, a crowd of high-blooded trolls and unbearably rich humans and carapaces surrounding their impeccably-dressed queen bee, and the Feferi Peixes camp, a much more ragtag group of lovable misfits hailing their own very pretty leader. Both trolls are wearing mostly-fuchsia and rocking the long wavy locks; however, Meenah Prime is in a pantsuit and lethal stiletto heels, artful grey stripes fashioned into her hatchsign stretching over the jacket. Feferi is in a much more delicate gown with glass beading and ruffles like jellyfish tentacles, floating between the tables and greeting her supporters and benefactors.

 

You pick a spot on the Fef side and pick up a menu.

 

The conversation overall is light, but all attention is riveted on the large TV screen hanging over the stage at the head of the room, which is showing the poll results as they come in. It’s still pretty even at the moment and will probably continue to be. You watch Meenah Prime for a little while and are very pleased indeed to see her looking frazzled—so put-together on the surface, of course, but there is iron in her smile and her hands keep crooking into claws. You idly wonder what’ll happen when—if—she loses.

 

You notice that there are real golden tridents hanging on the stage as decoration and wonder whose brilliant idea was that. Karkat, who has his finger to his ear and his eye everywhere, keeps looking at them nervously every time he passes too close on a sweep around.

 

You don’t know a lot of people here, but Jade is certainly familiar, flitting between the two sides and playing gracious hostess. Jake and Roxy seem to have secured invites, and are at the table with Sollux and Eridan telling a funny story that appears to involve a boa constrictor and a large quantity of lighter fluid. There’s an older troll sitting at Feferi’s table who looks a lot like Sollux, and you figure that’s Mr. Captor, his guardian. You sip your water and keep an eye on everything you can spare an eye for.

 

Feferi has a woman sitting with her you can’t quite see and don’t recognize, a slender woman with long blond hair and a navy blue dress. You look at her idly for a long time, then stand up.

 

“Hey,” Karkat grunts, turning up behind you, “everything alright by your estimation, Strider?”

 

“You appear to be doing your job, Vantas,” you reply, settling back down into your chair. “Though I’m a little worried about those tridents.”

 

“Those stupid things,” Karkat snorts. “Apparently neither Meenah nor Feferi would agree to the reception without the tridents present. Supposed to represent the strength of their bloodline or whatever.”

 

“They sharp?”

 

“Like razors.”

 

“And Jade just let them?”

 

“She’s catering to the rich and famous, what more do you want,” Karkat grumps. “Lemme know if you see anything suspicious, alright? I trust your eyes more than any of these gadgets or underlings.”

 

You accept the compliment and nod. “Will do.”

 

“Good,” Karkat says, visibly relieved, and to pass some time you watch him take another turn around the room. Another half hour and the results will be out.

 

“Mr. Strider,” a voice purrs, and you behold Meenah Prime in her glory. “I don’t think we ever net, guppy.”

 

Someone save you from the fishpuns. You shake her hand.

 

“Ms. Peixes.”

 

“You’re the Strider who went pale for my Janie,” she says, and your gut roils hot. “Heard all aboat your falling-out. Tough stuff.”

 

“It wasn’t a falling-out,” you say stiffly. “I just moved in with my boyfriend at the time.”

 

“Don’t got him no more, then, huh?” Meenah Prime chuckles, her eyes flicking towards your paper flower. “Tough breaks.”

 

You smile thinly. She slaps your back.

 

“Shame ‘boat what happened to Janie. Woulda piked to pass on the torch to her instead of that doofish Dualscar.”

 

You wonder what she’s trying to accomplish with this, because clearly she doesn’t really think you’ll buy any of what she’s spouting; she’s grinning too widely for it.

 

“Shell, I guess we’ll never find out if she coulda handled it,” she yawns. “Too bad. My money was on not.”

 

“And what makes you so sure of that?” you snap. Crap.

 

Meenah leers then, leaning into your personal space. “Lookit how she handled a little dose of reality. She has one little tantrum and…” She then mimes a shot to the head, and the glass in your hand shatters.

 

“Might wanna clean that up,” she smirks, and pats you on the back again. “Later, Strider.”

 

She leaves, and Karkat yanks you by the arm towards the bathroom (bathroom, what, this is a legit _powder room_ ).

 

“Keep it together, Dirk,” Karkat snaps at you, and it is with utmost patience that you resist smacking him. Your dominant hand is bleeding, currently. He rinses off your hand and presses a towel to it, then starts digging under the sink for a box of bandages. “You gave her exactly what she wanted.”

 

“If she wanted to get a rise out of me, congratulations, she didn’t have to try very hard,” you grit your teeth. Really, the cuts aren’t so bad; you’ve had worse strifing with Dave. “How much longer do I have to sit in this monkey suit?”

 

“Little while longer,” Karkat grunts, then puts the last bandage on. “There.”

 

“Why are you mothering me?” you ask, flexing your fingers. You’ll be fine, honestly. Shoulda just pressed a towel to it for a bit until the bleeding stopped. This is overkill.

 

“I’m not mothering you,” he grumps. “I’m being a good friend. It’s what friends do.”

 

“Friends also tell each other why they quit jobs,” you say pointedly.

 

“Friends also don’t shut out all their other friends,” he snaps back. Touché. He crosses his arms over his chest and looks at his feet.

 

“Look, whatever happens tonight, Strider, we’re all still your friends, okay? I don’t know what Jade did, and I don’t wanna know, but locking yourself in the apartment for a month isn’t the right way to handle it.”

 

You don’t know what else to say so you just nod.

 

“Are we cool?”

 

You nod again.

 

“Alright.” He opens the powder room door. “Results should be in any minute. Let’s go watch a Batterwitch cry.”

 

When you make it back to your table, you see that Meenah Prime and Feferi are on the stage, sitting in front of their respective tridents and surrounded with a ring of supporters. The woman in the blue dress is sitting directly behind Feferi. You can see her hair flutter every time she moves.

 

You study Meenah Prime’s side. Mostly seadwellers; you can see the lightning horns and double scars of Cronus Ampora the Elder, and are pleased when you can look at him with no more than a mild interest. You hope Cronus the Younger is doing well, wherever he is.

 

There is one troll, though, who is an ancient tower of reedy muscle and hair, and his face is lost in creases and folds underneath a layer of messy facepaint. He keeps honking to himself and chuckling, smoking a suspicious-looking yellowish-orange pipe that keeps emitting greenish smoke. He’s very familiar, and when you look at Karkat, get his attention, and gesture to the troll, he shivers and keeps walking.

 

Ah. Grandaddy Makara, you presume.

 

The sound system in the ballroom suddenly explodes, and the whole room hushes up to hear the announcement. All attention is on the television, with only a little thought to spare on the camera crew setting up in the back to televise the swearing-in.

 

“Ladies and gentlemen of Altville, please welcome in your new mayor, whom you have voted for,” the lady on the TV drones, and the whole room tenses. Feferi’s fists clasp in her lap. Meenah taps her foot on the floor. You hold your breath.

 

“Mayor Feferi Peixes.”

 

There is a moment of silence where you could swear you heard a pin drop, and everything explodes.

 

Feferi is engulfed on both sides by her quadrantmates, then turns around and hugs whoever was sitting behind her. The city officiaries are walking up to the stage when there is a loud yowl, and then an earsplitting crash of metal on metal. You stand up to try and get a good appraisal of the situation over the people on their feet.

 

Apparently Meenah Prime isn’t taking the news so well. She has the trident in her hands, though she looks…shocked. Maybe a little terrified. Your eyes follow the trident, where it’s locked with another set of tines, down the handle, up the slender arms holding it, to the face…

 

Your breath freezes. Your heart stops. You wonder where she threw the wig. You wonder where she’s been. You wonder if you hit your head on something.

 

“Jane,” you murmur.

 

There’s no mistaking her, even if she is much too skinny. Dark curls, bright blue eyes, tan skin, round face, knowing smirk—this is Her, your Jane Crocker, and if the room wasn’t already in an uproar you’d be yelling, yourself.

 

“Temper, temper, Grandma,” she says, voice sweet and clear over the crowd, and every bit of your insides turn to ice and Jell-O and a lot of other liquids they shouldn’t. “That’s no way to be a gracious loser.”

 

Meenah apparently can’t speak. You can’t, either.

 

“But I suppose it’s just your nature,” she continues, and you are rooted to the spot while the camera crew hisses amongst itself and then you realize that this is live on every TV with the news on in Altville, and if the news isn’t on it will be soon. “You did try to kill me, after all.”

 

The tines of the tridents are still locked, and Meenah seems incapable of moving.

 

“Shall I tell them what I’ve been up to the past two years?” she asks, and you want to scream _yes_ but, well, you’re a little busy trying to get your brain to work. She half-turns to the cameras. “Hello, Altville. It’s me again, Jane Crocker. Back from the dead, if you wanna put it that way.”

 

She turns her attention back to Meenah. “For the past couple of years,” she says, and the room is silent so her voice is clearly heard, “I’ve been under cover working to dismantle the crime syndicate led by the elusive boss, the Batterwitch. It’s a fitting name, isn’t it? The head of Betty Crocker, the company most famous for their baking supplies, taking on a name that alludes to who she is without ever truly giving it away? Really, I applaud you.” And she does this little mocking bow, and your breath stalls in your throat.

 

“I have concrete evidence to support all of the claims I’m about to make, of course, and you will find it with my good friend and our protector, the cherub Calliope. So, in case Meenah Peixes decides to finish the job on me, she won’t get away with everything.”

 

Jane then clears her throat, twists the trident, and comes away with both; the aggressing trident slips clean out of Meenah’s nerveless grasp.

 

She then starts to name off some of the biggest crimes to the Batterwitch’s name to date: the assassination order of both Kankri Vantas and Rufioh Nitram, the Signless and the Summoner; the close business relationship with the Midnight Crew and all the murders she carried out through them, including the murders of James Egbert and Albert and Neyvah Hanson; blackmailing Cronus Ampora and more or less stealing his own company; attempted murder of Feferi Peixes, several times; attempted brainwashing of the people of Altville via the phones (and then she shows off the tiny pink wire and every troll in the room recoils in some way or another).

 

“And, let’s not forget,” Jane says, her voice sweet as ever, “the attempted murders of Karkat Vantas, Jake English, Roxy Lalonde, and,” her voice hitches ever so slightly, “Dirk Strider.”

 

Your legs start taking you towards the stage, and she looks at you, and smiles a little, a very small sad smile.

 

Then Meenah starts laughing. It grows in volume until it’s echoing, wild and free, over the crowd.

 

“Cute, Janie,” Meenah smirks, “but who’s gonna bereef that pile of lies? You’re supposed to be dead, remember?”

 

“Oh, I don’t expect people to quite believe it,” Jane shakes her head, “not yet.” Why are there so many people in the way. “But for starters, you just tried to skewer Feferi after she won the election, and I’m sure if you ask the viewers back home, that looks an awful lot like murderous intent. And all the symptoms of the people who were getting sick using the PalmHusk—classic chucklevoodoo afflictions.” At this she inclines her head at the ancient troll smoking his pipe, who blows a ring and gives a small salute with the pipe. “And, of course, there are the testimonies of several of your previous board of directors members who have agreed to testify against you as soon as Chief Regent down there arrests you.”

 

The closer you get to the stage, the clearer Meenah’s rage-sharpened eyes become, a dot of fuchsia in a sea of rapidly-reddening orange.

 

“You can’t do this,” Meenah hisses. “I’ll ruin you, gill, you hear me?”

 

“You can’t ruin a dead thing, Grandmother,” Jane says tightly. “Chief?”

 

The bumbling carapace nods and starts approaching the stage, going for his walkie-talkie. Karkat joins him, summoning a few of his goons to help. Meenah starts backing away, and then she moves so quickly that even you lose sight of what happens—there’s a clang, a set of screams, and then a wet _thunk_. Your hands are on the stage and you vault up, your ears ringing, but it’s not for the reasons you think that Jane’s eyes are wide.

 

The trident found its mark, but in the gut of Mituna Captor, whose fist is closed around the base of the trident and who has a grim set to his jaw even as a trickle of yellow drips from the corner of his mouth.

 

“Let’s dance one last time, you and I,” he murmurs, and starts sparking. You do what comes to mind and grab Jane, forcing her down behind the stage, where people are running for cover as the old troll’s psionics start going crazy, sparking and licking up the trident. Meenah’s hands are stuck and she starts jolting a little. You cover Jane and clench your eyes shut.

 

It’s over in a manor-rattling _boom_ and an overwhelming smell of charred flesh and hair, and when you peek up over the edge you see that there are two smoking husks, attached by a blackened rod of gold. Behind you, you hear Sollux sniff.

 

Your hands are still on Jane’s shoulders, and you don’t think you can let her go. But she’s walking, taking one of your hands in hers, and you blindly follow her. You and Karkat are being sat down in chairs inside a study, and when you refocus you see that Jane is standing between Jade and Calliope.

 

“You have some explaining to do,” Karkat says, and his voice is a little strangled.

 

“Yes, I know,” Jane says apologetically. You stare at her. You don’t know that you’ll ever stop staring at her. Except you kind of want to start running and never come back, never look at her again, because _how could she do this to you_.

 

“I don’t think it’s any secret I wasn’t in the best of places, two years ago,” Jane starts, “and in all honesty I fell right into the trap without thinking twice about it. Meenah was quite ready to get rid of me at that point. Getting a little too close to her game for comfort, it seems.

 

“It started as me trying to help her recover something from Mr. Captor.” She pauses and sighs. “He was a good man, a very good man. And I knew that when I talked to him. But talking to him helped me to find out the truth.” She looks at Karkat. “Karkat, are you ready to tell them?”

 

“Well, everybody in here seems to know my business, so why bother?” he grumbles, but shifts in his chair. “Dirk, you wanted to know why I quit the force?”

 

You nod.

 

“When I was a new officer, I was approached by the Batterwitch and basically blackmailed into her service,” he says darkly. “All I had to do was cover up her involvement in any cases and play her off as an urban legend, and she wouldn’t kill anyone I care about. After Jane apparently didn’t kill herself, she let me off the hook, so to speak. I couldn’t stay at the department anymore, not with what I’ve done.”

 

You jerkily nod and return your attention to Jane.

 

“And once I found out the truth, I had to be silenced,” Jane continues, “and that was the perfect opportunity to disappear and really begin working on tearing down her throne. That’s what I’ve been doing for two years—whittling down her list of allies, giving the right nudges and pushes to get rid of her sycophants, just trying to make tonight possible.”

 

You stare at her for a while, then look at Jade and Calliope. “How?” you croak. “Why?”

 

“As to the how, I can answer that,” Calliope says. “If you’ll allow me?”

 

Jane nods, and Callie presses her hand to Jane’s face. There’s a pop and a whiff of ozone, and when she takes her hand away, it’s Roxy looking back at you. You blink, and Callie changes her face back.

 

“My good friend Aradia supplied a body of similar type to Jane’s,” Calliope says, “and I modified it, after some tutelage from Miss Jade here.” She inclines her head, and Jade quirks a grin.

 

“Not much. You’re a natural.”

 

“So, what, you disguised a body as Jane using your freaky freak powers?” Karkat says roughly. “Why? There were smarter ways of going about this! How are you so stupid to think that making all of your friends think you are _dead_ was the best way?”

 

“It wasn’t about any of you,” Jane says, her voice a little icy, and you flinch a little. She softens. “Well, it was. I wanted to do it other ways, trust me, I did. I had an entire fleet of contingency plans in wait. Meenah forced my hand.”

 

“Forced all of our hands,” Jade says tightly.

 

“Though, to be fair, dear, you did provoke her,” Calliope inserts mildly, to which Jane shrugs.

 

“Doesn’t mean she didn’t force us any less.”

 

“ _What?_ ” you say, and the word escapes from you like a charging rhino.

 

“She attempted to make me a deal,” Jane says. “Either I killed myself, or she killed you, Karkat, Jake, and Roxy.”

 

You stare at her blankly. She went undercover…to protect you?

 

“Obviously, once she was dead, she needed to be protected,” Calliope continues. “So except for myself, Jade, Feferi, and Aradia, no one could know that Jane was actually alive and well. Oh, and John.”

 

“John?” you find yourself saying. “John knew?”

 

“Of course he did,” Jane says, and her voice is pained. “I couldn’t…I couldn’t do that to him. He knew before the funeral.”

 

Well…that explains nothing, but you guess you shouldn’t have overestimated his cheerful disposition. He didn’t even cry at the funeral, you realize. Got choked up, but never actually cried.

 

“Dirk,” Jane says, and you look at her. She approaches you slowly, like approaching a hurt animal, and kneels in front of you. She doesn’t touch you. “Dirk, I’m so sorry. I wouldn’t have done it if there was another way.”

 

You study her for a long time. Then you stand up and make for the door. You pause a moment.

 

“Thank you for telling me,” you say stiffly. “I’m glad you’re alright.” You open the door. “Please don’t talk to me right now.”

 

You go home to batten down the hatches, because this is going to be the biggest upset you’ve had in two years.

 

==>

 

You eventually smash your phone, because people won’t stop calling you. All the rage on the news is the triple-hitter: the Feferi win, the Meenah snap, and the Jane resurrection. Mainly the last one. The story being released is exactly the one she told you, which does and doesn’t surprise you. It doesn’t because it’s her and she doesn’t lie unless absolutely necessary, and it does because you don’t think it’s very necessary for everyone to know. She’s being hailed as a hero, as a nutjob, as a lot of things. You just want to stop seeing her everywhere you look.

 

Jake and Roxy do stop by, though. You mostly spend the time staring awkwardly at each other. You know what Roxy wants, but it’s not going to happen. Not yet. When they go to leave, she hugs you, nice and tight.

 

“Get yourself a new phone,” she says. “We’re gonna have lunch one day.”

 

You nod and wave when they leave. Then you go back to the smuppet you’re sewing. Moustache and monocle. Tiny fedora. You don’t realize what you’re sewing until it’s done.

 

It’s been a couple of weeks when there’s a shy, quiet tap on your door. The manager has been a saint and not letting any of the reporter vultures inside, so whoever this is either had to be very sneaky or teleport inside. You almost don’t open the door. But you do. Because you’re pathetic and you hope it’s who you think it is.

 

The worst part, you think, is that Jane won’t really look at you anymore, like she’s afraid of you. That rankles. She shouldn’t be scared of you. Then you remember you’re not talking to her and think to shut the door again. You don’t move.

 

“I just wanted to see how you were doing,” she says softly.

 

“I’m…okay,” you say. “Processing.”

 

She nods, eyes on her feet. “I thought so.”

 

You sigh and stand aside. “Come in.”

 

She moves with small, timid motions, when once this was her domain and she was queen of it. You look around at the clutter and the trash and feel a stab of guilt.

 

“Uh…do you want…anything?”

 

She shakes her head. You don’t know how to proceed, so you both just stand awkwardly and don’t look at each other.

 

“I want to apologize,” Jane finally says. “I know I can never say sorry enough for what I did, but I hope one day you can come to forgive me. I only did what I thought would keep you safe.”

 

You squeeze your eyes shut. “I know.”

 

“And I don’t really expect you to want to talk to me again, so.” She rubs her arm. She’s so thin. Why is she so thin. “That’s what I wanted to say.”

 

You clench your hands at your sides. She shifts her weight, then starts walking towards the door.

 

“I’ll go now. Thanks for seeing me.”

 

You flashstep towards her and grab her wrist before you know what you’re doing, and pull her into your arms.

 

There’s less of her to hug, but she holds you much tighter than she ever did before, hard enough to bruise, hard enough to crack ribs, and you hold her just as tightly. You’re both sobbing messes before too long, sinking to the floor and hugging each other and you keep trying to stroke away her apologies because even though she hurt you in ways you have never been hurt before and never want to experience again, she was doing the best she could. It’ll take time, of course, but as you repeat her name over and over and rock back and forth, you know, in a calm place in your heart, that you’ll be alright.

 

==>

 

“Dirk?”

 

You look up from your cereal to see Jane dressed and ready to go somewhere.

 

“Karkat just called me,” she says. She’s looking a little healthier now, a month or so later. “Someone broke into an apartment on 43rd Street and killed the resident. He wants my help.” She bites her lip. “So. That’s where I’m going.”

 

“Okay.” You swallow. “How’d he die?”

 

“Apparently he was chopped in half,” she replies. “The legs are missing.” She rocks up on her toes and back for a bit. “Did you…did you want to come?”

 

You blink, then drain your cereal bowl and wipe your mouth.

 

“Sure.”

 

She smiles brightly at you and for a moment you forget how to breathe.

 

Your name is Dirk Strider. You moved in with one of your dearest friends from high school four years ago, solved murders, lost her, and got her back. You don’t know what the relationship between you is anymore. But as she takes your hand and shoves that filthy fedora over her hair, you don’t think it really needs a name. You lace your fingers between hers and follow her out into the world.

 

Just like you were always meant to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And, well, there we go.
> 
> Now git yourselves over to Karkat Vantas' RomCom Life for the conclusion of his story, which requires this for context, don'tcha know.
> 
> Again, humongous thanks to everyone who's read and commented, because you are all incredibly special and beautiful souls and I love all of you. 
> 
> If you have questions or concerns or want to know what has happened to this or that character, feel free to attack my Tumblr inbox! I will be answering questions and maybe even writing mini-fic for the next few days, so if you liked it, either drop a comment/kudos here or stop by my Tumblr!
> 
> Thank you again, ever so very, very much, for the support and the love. You guys are superstars.

**Author's Note:**

> Allow me to take this moment to apologize for everything.
> 
> The quality of the second two fics as opposed to the first is not great, I'll freely admit it, but I think the story is sort of telling itself at this point and so I must keep writing. I know a lot of you are probably very confused and maybe even irate, but please be patient, all will be explained in time.
> 
> If you see any mistakes or have any questions, please leave a comment!
> 
> Thanks for reading!


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